"No. We met yesterday."
Inspector Hauata and Officer Teuira exchanged a glance. I could almost see an unspoken judgment hanging between them.
I tried to steady my voice. "Please, I watched him run toward the explosion. He reached the dock before anyone else. A man—masked, in dark clothing—was dragging a security guard. The guard wasn't moving."
"And this McCabe?" Inspector Hauata leaned forward. "What did he do?"
"He inserted himself between the injured guard and the masked man." My fingers curled around the edge of my chair. "The man had a knife. They fought."
"And then?"
"Michael disarmed him. The man stumbled backward and..." I swallowed, feeling the residual pain from smoke inhalation. "He fell into the burning yacht."
"He fell?" It was the sound of doubt from Inspector Hauata.
"Yes. Michael tried to grab him, but it happened too quickly."
Officer Teuira stopped writing and looked directly at me. "Mr. Kessler, you've known this man for less than a day, yet you seem very certain about his intentions and actions."
"I am."
"You trusted him after a day?" Inspector Hauata raised an eyebrow.
"Yes."
Officer Teuira set down her pen. "And why would you trust someone you barely know in such a situation?"
I had no rational explanation—nothing that would satisfy their procedural minds. All I had was the truth.
"Because when everyone else was running away, he ran toward people who needed help." I met her gaze steadily. "And because I know what I saw."
Twenty minutes later, the door opened with a soft pneumatic hiss. A younger officer dressed in the same navy uniform but lacking the silver insignia of rank entered with hurried steps. He leaned down to whisper something into Inspector Hauata's ear, his French too rapid and low for me to catch.
Inspector Hauata's expression changed. His posture straightened, and the casual authority he'd projected transformed into something sharper.
He turned back to me. "The man who died was Lars Reeves."
The name meant nothing to me at first. Then, it registered.
Lars Reeves. My memories connected with the name clicked into place.
Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies. It was a Seattle-based conglomerate that had grown from a modest software company to a sprawling empire with tentacles in defense, biotech, and artificial intelligence.
I'd researched them in preparation for a lecture on modern corporate empires less than a year ago. They were players in the murky world of Pentagon contracts. "Lars Reeves. Son of Harold Reeves?"
Inspector Hauata nodded once, watching my reaction with renewed interest.
"You're familiar with him?"
"Not personally. I teach history. His family's company is significant in Seattle's tech development. That's my home city."
I tried to reconcile the polished images of a corporate executive with a masked assailant on a dock in Tahiti. "Are you certain it was him?"
Officer Teuira spoke up. "We have positive identification." She shared no details on how they'd obtained such confirmation so quickly from a body consumed by flames.
I leaned back, and my mind raced. Lars Reeves had been the kind of wealthy scion with a press team as a child. His exploits, charity galas, and endless yacht parties filled celebrity-focused media.
"What was he doing dressed in tactical gear and attacking a security guard?" Lars Reeves was notorious for thirty-thousand-dollar watches and custom Italian suits, not combat boots and tactical masks.
