The Black Mercedes

CHAPTER 1

The usual Friday night poker game had lasted until after one.  Frank Tulverson waved goodnight to his friends, then drove his dilapidated Chevy onto Highway One, a two-lane road that twines atop the cliffs lining the California coast.  Smiling, he reached behind him to adjust the wad of cash bulging his back pocket.

Suddenly, a shiny black car sped past him, doing at least eighty.  Intending to overtake the idiot, he floored the accelerator.  Rounding a sharp curve, he screeched to a halt.  There was a blinding flash of lights, and the Mercedes surged over the barrier, out of sight.

He helplessly watched it topple end over end in a dizzying array of lights and sounds, bouncing on rocks and ledges until it landed, a flaming torch on the rocks below.  Twenty-five years on the Marcross police force hadn’t made a scene like this any easier to take.  Hands trembling, he picked up the cell phone.

“Yes, Paul¾Frank Tulverson.  Reporting a crash on Highway One, a couple of miles north of Hank’s Place.”

“We know, Tull.  Units are on the way.”

“You know?  How?”

“Someone beat you to it.  Report came in ten minutes ago.”

“That’s impossible.  I just witnessed the crash.  Who called in?”

“Don’t know.  Guess it was anonymous.”

There was no use arguing with stupidity, especially over the eardrum-shattering wail of multiple sirens approaching.

“All right,” Tully shouted, putting the phone back in the Chevy.  What in hell were they going to do when he retired?

As the police and paramedics rounded the curve, he waved his flashlight, signaling them to stop.

“It’s not going to be easy getting down there, fellas.  We’ll probably need a ’copter.”

“We can make it on foot,” one of the paramedics said.  “There’s a turn-out about twenty-five yards back, and a rough pathway down to the shore.  Used to take it as a kid.”

Tully moaned.  “I was a kid a hell of a long time ago.  Let’s go.”

No one spoke as they inched their way downward, intent on keeping their footing.  All was quiet, except for the pounding of surf on the rocks below.  As they neared the wreckage, the heat, mingled with the sickening stench of burnt flesh and smouldering leather upholstery, forced them to step back.  Tully flashed his light inside the car.

“There’s a body in there.”  His shoulders sagged.  “There’s no rush to get it out.  It’s cooked.”

It was a male, judging by what remained of his jewelry and bits of clothing.

One of the officers poked among the wreckage, uncovering a chrome grill.  “Why would anyone rich enough to own a Mercedes want to end his life this way?”

A paramedic leaned forward for a closer look.  “You think it was suicide?”

Tully shrugged.  “Could be, but suicidals normally don’t call the police to report their demise ten minutes in advance.  Let’s not speculate.  It’s 2:40.  As soon as the ’copter gets here, load the body and secure the scene.  There’s little else we can do before daylight.”

Once the body was loaded onto the helicopter, Tully made his way back up the cliff, conferred with the others as to what time to meet back there, then drove off.  Half way home, he realized he wouldn’t be able to sleep.  Too many questions nagged at him.