10

HEAT

It all comes down to preparation. Attention to detail. Redundancies. Redundancies. And redundancies.
— Michael Fassbender, The Killer.

REDWOOD CITY
9 DECEMBER 2024

BEING INTERROGATED BY POLICE was not on my 2024 bingo card but alas, here we are. It’s something I have worked very hard to avoid up to this point but Ari Katz’s crusade against me and Mari forced my hand. Though his suspicions had fallen on skeptical ears, it was only a matter of time until he’d find some cop to buy into his theories—or worse, a reporter.

It was sweetly satisfying watching Katz swing from the rope around his neck but even in death, he’s still trying to see me in prison. All that dirt he had collected on me was left there for the police to discover. I didn’t have a choice. He had already shared what he knew with too many people.

Fortunately, I have several advantages over Katz. First, I’m rich. Money buys everything, including happiness, but in this situation the most noteworthy benefit of having an endless amount of cash is being able to afford the best attorney possible.

Speaking of, Jacqueline Sparagna is waiting for me in the lobby of the San Mateo Sheriff Office in an adorable black pantsuit. It’s Prada I think, or maybe Bottega Veneta. Her dark hair is straight and parted down the middle, and her makeup is minimalistic, consisting of only a thin layer of foundation, mascara and lipstick. She’s barely over five feet tall and weighs maybe a buck twenty-five on a cheat day. Certainly not physically intimidating by any stretch but make no mistake: this woman is a pitbull criminal defense attorney.

Of course, selecting a firm like Werksman, Jackson & Quinn as your representatives can backfire given their recent clients being Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey. To a degree it might paint me as guilty. I almost hired a general practice attorney to avoid this, but it felt like I was overthinking the whole affair.

“How was the flight,” Sparagna says as our hands exchange a shake.

“Long,” I say. Over the last five days I’ve ping-ponged back and forth between San Francisco and Miami.

My purse and phone go into the little tub on the conveyor belt to pass under the x-ray machine while I walk through the metal detector. The deputy, a tall, gruff man with a crew cut, welcomes me as I retrieve my belongings.

“Thank you, deputy,” I say with a slight husk in my voice and a bright smile. Not a Gorgo-smile, but rather a warm, gentle greeting, with rosy cheeks and sparkly eyes. His eyes look down at the floor and stay there briefly before lifting back to mine. He’s grinning nervously, like a sexually deprived high school nerd in the presence of the prom queen and I am gracing him with my presence.

That brings me to my second advantage over Katz. I am charming, lovely, hilarious, adorable and fuckable. When it serves my interests, I can project a specific version of Yelena to the target. What verison, however, is dependent on the Other Me, who can smell a person’s wants and desires like a sow roots out truffles. Take the deputy here.

“When he looked down,” she whispers in my head, “he saw the tops of your feet peeking out of your Stuart Weitzman pumps and got a stiffy. On his next break he’ll wank it in the bathroom imagining what your toes look like.“

My third advantage over Katz is my stellar reputation (outside of wrestling). I’ve been on the cover of business magazines. I’ve dedicated millions into projects for the underprivileged and vulnerable while funneling millions more into the pockets of investors and supporters. Corporate Yelena will have a line of executives lined up around the block to testify to the quality of her character.

Sparagna joins me after retrieving her briefcase from the x-ray. She says, “We’re early. Let’s take a seat.”

We sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs and make small talk while the lady cop at the front desk occasionally glances at us through the bullet-proof glass. We’re alone otherwise which was the reason for meeting at seven in the fucking morning.

We’ve not been waiting long when another deputy comes through the security door and approaches us. He’s tall, in shape, and his two-tone blue uniform is pressed straight with nary a wrinkle. Anal-retentive much? Standing still he looks like an action figure. His hair is razored to the skin and his face clean-shaven. His face is mostly smooth for someone in his forties or early fifties and his skin has a slight tan.

“Ms. Gorgo, Mrs. Spagnara,” he says sharply in a tenor voice. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Tom Wydell. If you follow me, Sheriff Corpus is waiting for us in the conference room down this way.”

Wydell is the lead investigator on the case. He’s a hard read, this one. The Other Me projects an image of a boy scout in my head cinema. He’s the type who’d rat out his mother for ringing up her organic bananas as regular to save a few cents.

Oh yes, I can see it as he leads us down the hallway—the end of the stick he has perpetually lodged up his ass poking against the seat of his pants. Or maybe it’s the world’s largest hemorrhoid. Either way, I don’t like these types. They can be difficult to manipulate but not impossible. Everyone has a pressure point. You only need to find it and squeeze.

Thankfully, however, my fate is not solely in the deputy’s hands.

Sheriff Corpus is standing when I walk in, followed by Spagnara and finally Wydell, who shuts the door before taking his place next to the Sheriff on the other side of an oval table.

As I mentioned to Katz before he hung tough, I’ve met the sheriff before. It was in the spring at a fundraising event for the Sheriff Office’s youth outreach program. I was there representing the foundation, which had authorized a substantial donation to build inclusive playgrounds across the county, as well as fund a drug outreach program for juveniles.

I had no way of knowing when I approved the measure that I’d be sitting here nine months later. This is why portfolio diversification is important. Spread the money around so all the hungry mouths get a taste. You never know when you’ll need a hungry, hungry hippo to stall a criminal investigation on your behalf.

That night I spent an entire evening sitting next to the sheriff and her husband and a few other county bigwigs. Charming Yelena. Friendly Yelena. Casually Flirty Yelena after a few drinks loosened their stiff collars.

Corpus is twice my age but definitely fuckable. She’s so tiny, like a little China doll I could fit in my pocket. Her husband was not attractive at all. I’m not sure where this smoking hot Asian cougar found that bald, fat box of midwestern corn flakes in a suit but maybe he’s gifted in other areas. I would’ve let him watch so long as he sat on his hands. No touchy touchy.

“Ms. Gorgo,” Corpus says with a warmer smile than most would receive during an interrogation. Of course most interviews don’t take place in a nice conference room with a ground floor window facing the street. It’s a good sign.

Or an elaborate set-up to get me to drop my guard.

“Resist the urge,” my Darker Self tells me. “Don’t try to charm her. Not with Mr. Crispy-Pants here.“

“Sheriff,” I say simply without mentioning our previous rendezvous. No need to tip that to Wydell if he’s not already aware of it. As I pull a chair out, the sheriff and my attorney exchange greetings and then all three join me in taking a seat.

It might not be a traditional interrogation room but there are two cameras monitoring us. One is on a tripod behind the constables and another at the end of the table to capture all four of us. The light on the conference phone between us is also steadily blinking. Someone is listening on the line.

There’s a notepad and a pen in front of Wydell for notetaking and both officers have unbranded cups of coffee. I wasn’t offered one which bothers me more than it should. I’m sure it comes from a can and tastes awful.

Wydell clears his throat while his body moves to adjust to the chair. Must be that stick up his ass making it hard to get comfortable. He speaks first.

“Today is December 9th, 2024. It’s 7:36 a.m. Present from the San Mateo Sheriff’s Office is myself, Deputy Tom Wydell, and Sheriff Christine Corpus. Today we are interviewing Yelena Lisbeth Gorgo. Also present is her attorney, Jacqueline Sparagna.”

He starts to lean back but stops himself to add. “Also, on the line is a representative from the San Francisco Police Department.”

“Inspector John Eckhardt,” a man’s voice says over the speaker.

The room goes quiet save my heart beating in my ear. I swallow back the panic expanding in my chest like a volcano trying to choke back an eruption. I manage, but it takes everything in me to not react to Ari Katz’s best buddy being involved in this.

Thankfully, my lawyer can react for me.

“What is this?” Sparagna asks in a cunty-tone that I one hundred percent love right now. “I wasn’t told about anyone from SFPD being part of this interview.”

Wydell grits his teeth and says, “Inspector Eckhardt is here as a courtesy. He knew Ari Katz and recently had spoken with him regarding your client. This is killing two birds with one stone.”

I let her continue to protest to the point where her and Wydell are practically at each other’s throats. At one point I look over at Corpus, who seems as annoyed with this whole thing as I am, so I take the initiative.

“Everyone relax,” I say with my hands off the table. Their eyes all move to me. I turn to my lawyer and give a nod with a hand on her forearm. “It’s okay,” I tell her. She huffs quietly before looking across the table and giving her okay.

Corpus takes the initiative to seize the lead from Wydell. With her hands clasped on the table, she says with her thin lips, “Thank you for coming this morning. I know you moved last week. To Florida, correct?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Was that planned for a while?”

“I had my house on the market for two months,” I say without the slightest bit of annoyance over the fact that she obviously already knows the answer. This is a test to see if I might slip up on some minor detail. “Selling in this market was not a pleasant experience, let me tell you.”

She’s an active listener, nodding along with everything I said. “Was moving to Florida always the plan?”

“Initially it was between New Orleans and Florida. NGF—the Niels Gram Foundation—is still based in New Orleans, so I am often there anyway, but we’ve been considering relocating operations to Florida.”

Wydell, seemingly unable to contain himself, interjects. “So it wasn’t to be closer to Marisol Vilaro.”

I look at him with weak eyes, like a girl being lectured by her father, because that is what he wants to see. I say, “Being closer to Mari would be a benefit, given our professional and personal relationship but it wasn’t the primary reason.”

“Which was?” he asks curtly.

“Tax liability.”

“Isn’t your company a non-profit?”

My eyebrows raise. “NGF is a non-profit, you are correct, and thus it isn’t subject to income taxes in the state of Louisiana. However, VALKYRIE, which is a for-profit subsidiary, is subject to income taxes in Louisiana. Moving it to Florida would free up a large amount of capital for future investment opportunities. If I’m going to uproot VALKYRIE, I might as well move NGF as well.”

Wydell is momentarily put in his place, allowing my attention to move back to the more amenable sheriff. I say, “Mari and I were only friends until recently, of which I’m sure you’re aware.”

“We are,” she says. “You started dating over Thanksgiving, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So she was, in fact, in San Francisco on Thanksgiving?”

“Yes, she spent the holiday with me.” I know why they are asking but I have to play dumb. All I’m supposed to know is that Ari Katz died, not when, and I’m here to answer questions regarding my contact with him.

“When did she arrive?” Corpus asks.

“Wednesday. The night before. It was a surprise. She practically showed up like that scene in Love Actually with the Christmas music and cue cards professing her love. It was adorable.”

Wydell takes the moment to insert himself back into the dialogue. “And what did you do after that?”

His question draws a laugh out of me that I can’t repress.

“Is something I said funny,” he asks with an annoyed bark.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh.” I do. “If you’re asking if we made love—”

“No,” he backpedals. “I mean where did you go? Was anyone else around that can vouch for your whereabouts?”

“We didn’t go anywhere that night. Angel was there. Angel Glazkov. My personal assistant. She lives with me.”

His brow perks. “Your assistant lives with you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m high maintenance. Anyway, we watched movies together in the theater room. We wanted to see Smile 2 so we figured we might as well watch the first one. At around four a.m. we went to bed.”

“We’ll need to speak with Ms. Glazkov,” Corpus says.

Sparagna chimes in. “I have her contact information, as well as a notarized statement confirming Yelena and Mari’s whereabouts that night as well as on Thanksgiving.” From her briefcase she removes Angel’s typed accounting of events and slides the papers across the table.

But wait, there’s more!

“We also have this.” In her hand is a small USB drive. She hands it directly to Wydell. He takes it and says, “What is it?”

“Video from the security camera outside the condo Yelena was staying at. It shows Marisol Vilaro arriving shortly after eleven p.m. The next day the two of them left in the afternoon with Ms. Glazkov to have lunch at the Mandarin House a few blocks away. And before you ask, the backyard is in a ravine. There is no way out without going through a dozen yards in either direction. I’ve included photos on the drive.”

Mari and I climbed out of the ravine. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. I had practiced the ascent and descent multiple times in preparation, always in the middle of the night. She wasn’t an experienced climber and nearly fell on our way back down after Katz was dealt with.

Wydell palms the drive and says, “You just happened to bring this today?”

“Deputy,” she says in a way that is cleverly veiled condescension. “I can tell that you are very good at your job, and I mean that sincerely. I appreciate that because I am very good at my job. I know why we are here. You have a man who committed suicide. This man had an obsession with my client and Ms. Vilaro. After his attempts to harass them failed, he contacted police departments in San Francisco, New Orleans and Miami to share his unfounded accusations. When that failed, he killed himself, but he did it in such a way that you would be forced to humor these theories born from the mind of a sick man and investigate my client and Ms. Vilaro. Am I correct, sir?”

“You’re well-informed,” is all he can say. Corpus takes the moment to redirect the conversation back to me.

“When did you first meet Ari Katz?”

I recite the story. Katz pretended to be a writer for Fortune magazine and dangled an article dedicated to moi as the bait. I met with him at a bistro where we chatted for a bit. Eventually I discovered his true purpose: to expose me (GASP) for crimes I totally committed. Well, all except having my brother run over by a bus in order to gain control of his fortune. Nate did that all on his own.

He also tried to trick Mari into a meet up but I put the kibosh on that. I met with him one more time with the hope that I could reason with him to end his constant attempts to contact both of us. That’s a lie of course. The real reason was to give Thaïs Empristikí an opportunity to plant a tracking device on his car. In hindsight, that wasn’t one of my best decisions. If news of his suicide has reached her, she’ll have a slew of questions about it and I better have answers good enough to settle her curiosity. For now I’ll leave out the tracking device and hope for the best.

Wydell puts his pen down and says, “Does the name Tibor Perov mean anything to you?”

Lying is like gambling, and just like the song, you gotta know when to hold’em, know when to fold’em, know when to walk away and know when to run.

This is a fold ’em situation.

“Yes,” I say.

“How?”

“I vaguely knew the name from years ago. He had some sort of dispute with my father but I was still a child when that all happened. Dad didn’t talk about that time period much because, quite frankly, he didn’t remember it well.”

Corpus says, “Why didn’t he remember?”

“He was in the hospital for several years. They performed shock treatments on him. It messed with his memory.”

The next question comes from Wydell. “Did you kill Petrov?” he asks with the grace of an anvil falling from a window onto my head.

“Absolutely not,” I state matter-of-factly.

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE.

He flips up the sheet of paper to read something underneath before laying it back down and asking, “Where were you on June 12th, 2021?”

That’s the day I killed Petrov. They have me on camera at the hotel desk and again in the elevator. Heavily disguised of course with a Ukrainian passport I made sure to show the concierge. Too much exposure but it couldn’t be helped. Petrov never left the hotel without a small army of armed guards. Thankfully, I planned ahead.

“I was in Reno,” I start to explain, far away from Los Angeles where I sliced Petrov’s neck open with my father’s straight razor.

“That was over three years ago,” Wydell says with a smirk. “Most people wouldn’t have an answer for that.”

“It was a noteworthy day.”

“How so?”

I say after an intentionally long breath, “My brother was wrestling. It was for the championship in a match made famous by my father. That’s why I came to America. I wasn’t ready to meet him yet but I felt like I should be there to see him win, so I bought a ticket.”

“Were you alone?”

“I was. I only arrived in the U.S. two weeks prior. I didn’t know anyone.”

“Convenient,” Wydell cracks.

“Alright,” Sparagna says with a huff. “Your tone is uncalled for, Deputy. My client is here answering questions freely. If you want to humor these unfounded accusations, you can do it without us. Let’s go, Yelena.”

She starts to stand but before I can join her Corpus says, “Please, wait. Sit back down. No one here is trying to be disrespectful to your client.”

It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment when she gives a hard look at Wydell. It’s a wordless scolding that puts him in his place and makes his jaw clench.

She turns to me and says, “We appreciate your cooperation. No one here is accusing you of anything but you have to understand it’s our job to ask these questions.”

She means it. I wasn’t sure when we first arrived, but Corpus doesn’t see me as capable of serial murder. She doesn’t see the monster lurking beneath my meticulously created person suit. We’re just a couple of career women trying to make it in a man’s world and Wydell is the patriarchy working to keep us both in our place. I can see the poorly hidden annoyance on her face every time he interjects. This is a good thing. He’s a dog chewing on a bone. If left to his own devices, he’ll keep gnawing at me and gnawing at me until the truth leaks out like sweet marrow.

After Spagnara sits back down, the sheriff smiles at both of us and asks, “Would either of you like something to drink?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning to Wydell and says, “Go get a couple cups of coffee.”

His mouth gapes open and his eyes push out of their sockets in shock. He sits there, scowling at her, and all she does is stare back. It’s a delightfully uncomfortable moment that doesn’t last long enough. The stand-off ends with the deputy getting up and walking toward the door.

“Oh, Deputy,” I say while leaning to look over the back of my chair. When he stops I tell him, “Non-dairy creamer and no sugar, please.” Spagnara turns around and says, “That sounds perfect. Make it two.”

He doesn’t give a verbal response but his body language conveys the message succinctly as go fuck yourself.

Once he’s gone, the interview takes a much less combative tone. Corpus says, “We know you weren’t with Katz the night he died. All evidence indicates he committed suicide. However, we can’t ignore what we found at the scene. He claims you were responsible for the deaths of…”

She pauses long enough to find the names in her notes and recites them. “Tibor Petrov in Los Angeles and Vanessa Byrne in San Francisco, as well as the disappearances of Alexandra Dupin in New Orleans and Estaban Farre in Miami.” She looks up before continuing. “We’ve spoken with detectives in LA, New Orleans and Miami. All of them disagree with Katz’s findings. As for San Francisco, Eckhardt?”

From the intercom, the inspector chimes in. “Byrne died from COVID according to the doctor who treated her at the hospital and the Chief Medical Examiner who performed the autopsy. I told Ari this but he would not be dissuaded.”

Sparagna, not wasting a moment to justify the outrageous cost of her services, speaks up. “If you give me a list of dates of these events, we can narrow down Ms. Gorgo’s whereabouts.”

“That would be appreciated,” Corpus says right as the door opens and Wydell walks in with two coffees in hand. He carries them to us, first handing one to Spagnara and then one to me. She immediately brings it to her lips and takes a test sip to gauge the temperature, then a larger drink before placing her cup down.

I drink from mine and nearly spit it out. It’s so sweet my teeth hurt. There’s enough sugar in this to kill Paula Dean and not one drop of creamer. Look at him walk around the table, unable to not glare at me like the childish fuck he is. I sit the cup down while my tongue tries to lick the sugar off my teeth.

“What did I miss?” the prick asks while getting comfortable. Everyone knows the first thing he’s going to do after I leave is watch the video to see what happened in those three minutes.

I let out a big huff of air and blurt out, “I did it.” All eyes lock on me. My lawyer is white as a ghost, Corpus is shocked and Wydell looks like a kid on Christmas.

Then I state flatly, “I was the gunman on the grassy knoll.”

Corpus laughs. She laughs and immediately covers her mouth with the back of her hand while tilting her head away from the far camera. Wydell is so mad his face is turning red and a vein bulges out of his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a hand wave. “That’s my humor.”

The relief on Spagnara’s face is delightful. Wydell, however, doesn’t have a sense of humor.

“You think that’s funny?” he asks. “A man is dead. Show some respect.”

“You’re right,” I say, bringing back those girly baby blues to show my deep remorse for upsetting Deputy Daddy. “It was in poor taste.”

Eckhardt says through the phone, “Speaking for San Francisco, we are satisfied with the conclusion of the Byrne case. While I am not involved in Katz’s death investigation, I can repeat what I’ve already told Wydell. Ari was a great investigator in his time, but alcohol and the death of his wife made him erratic. He presented all of this information to me in October. I did my due diligence by running down the leads and found no tenable connection between the cases and Ms. Gorgo. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed at a scene.”

The line disconnects. Corpus looks first at my lawyer then to me and says, “I think we’ve covered enough ground for today. I appreciate you both coming in to sort through this—and for bringing the security camera footage and the statement from your assistant. Of course we will be contacting her to get her direct accounting.”

“Of course,” Sparagna says and stands. “We’re happy to help. If you have any further questions, contact my office.” She takes a business card from her briefcase and hands it to Wydell who begrudgingly accepts it.

“Normally when I conclude a serious board meeting I make a joke to ease the tension,” I say while rising out of my chair. I look at Wydell first with a blank stare before turning to Corpus and offering the softer side of my face. “But in this case I’ll resist the urge.”

A chuckle tries to claw out of Corpus’s mouth but her professionalism keeps it from escaping. She stands with me, and soon after Wydell begrudgingly follows. The four of us exchange handshakes across the table. As my hand takes the sheriff’s and her dainty fingers wrap around mine, I say, “Thank you. As Jacqueline said, if you need anything else, simply reach out.”

“Of course,” she says as our hands reluctantly separate. She might not be down to fuck but there’s an unhappiness in her eyes and a subtle desperation in her scent that’s not unexpected in women over forty. Tonight she’ll go home, say hi to that fat sloth of a husband whose dick is probably as limp as a snail, then take a bath where she’ll try very hard to not think about me. It might not even be directly sexual, but it’ll be enough should I ever have to tug on that thirst for attention she’s desperate to receive.

Sparagna is at the door with her bag. I don’t say anything to Wydell on the way out. Fuck him. He gets a side eye at best before I leave. As we’re walking down the hallway, I lean over and ask quietly, “Did your coffee taste okay?”

She looks over but her answer is delayed as she considers the question. “I think so. I didn’t really notice anything wrong with it. Why?”

“Just asking,” I say, letting it go. For now.