The Killing of Bobbi Lomax
Page 1
The Killing of Bobbi Lomax
CAL MORIARTY
Table of Contents
Epigraph
Cast of Characters
1 Chapter 1
2 Chapter 2
3Chapter 3
4 Chapter 4
5 Chapter 5
6 Chapter 6
7 Chapter 7
8 Chapter 8
9 Chapter 9
10Chapter 10
11 Chapter 11
12 Chapter 12
13 Chapter 13
14 Chapter 14
15 Chapter 15
16 Chapter 16
17Chapter 17
18 Chapter 18
19 Chapter 19
20 Chapter 20
21 Chapter 21
22 Chapter 22
23 Chapter 23
24 Chapter 24
25 Chapter 25
26 Chapter 26
27 Chapter 27
28 Chapter 28
29 Chapter 29
30 Chapter 30
31 Chapter 31
32 Chapter 32
33 Chapter 33
34 Chapter 34
35 Chapter 35
36 Chapter 36
37 Chapter 37
38 Chapter 38
39 Chapter 39
40 Chapter 40
41 Chapter 41
42 Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Abraham City, several years later
About the Author
Copyright
For A, always
And for my parents
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Cast of Characters
Marty Sinclair Veteran detective
Al Alvarez Sinclair’s long-term cop partner
Clark Houseman A rare documents and manuscripts dealer
Edie Houseman A loyal Faith wife and mother
Kenny Clark Houseman’s friend and business associate
Big Tex Bomb Squad detective
Arnold Lomax Widower of Bobbi Lomax
Bobbi Lomax First bombing victim, new bride of Arnold Lomax
Audrey Lomax Sister of Arnold Lomax
Elaine
Shona } Friends of Bobbi Lomax
Linda Lomax Ex-wife of Arnold Lomax
Ronald Rook
Roderick Rook } Identical twin brothers, owners of Rooks Books
Peter Gudsen Second bombing victim, Arnold Lomax’s former business partner
Betty Gudsen Widow of Peter Gudsen
Marion Rose The Gudsens’ beautiful divorcee neighbor
Dougie Wild Las Vegas-based memorabilia dealer
Ziggy Bookman Homeless book lover
Travis J. Winkleman the Third Antiques and artifacts collector
Sanford T. Winkleman His brother, a wealthy Hollywood movie producer
Trevor Angel A dog walker
Alan Laidlaw A Faith Disciple
Robert Laidlaw A judge
The Order of the Twelve Disciples The Faith’s Ruling Council
Robert Bright The Prophet
Elizabeth, Rebecca, Ellen His three wives
This is not an exhaustive list.
1
Halloween 1983
Abraham City, Canyon County
Pig of a day, thought Marty Sinclair as he made his way down the back stairs of the precinct and out into the blazing heat of the lot. Two dead bodies in less than twenty-four hours and if the boom that just shook the precinct was anything to go by, one more at least. What a fucking mess. Marty didn’t usually allow himself to swear, but for this case he was making an exception. Carpe Diem. Make Hay while the Sun Shines and all that. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Pig of a day.
Alvarez was already in the car, lights on, facing the street. ‘What took you so long, man?’
‘Took the stairs. One at a time.’
‘Not in such a rush to get to the next one?’
‘I’d only just sat down.’
‘Who next?’
Marty exhaled. ‘Bobbi Lomax was bad, Al.’
Alvarez nodded, muttered something in Spanish under his breath and looked skywards.
Prayer for the dead, thought Marty. A prayer for why would have been more use, especially if it was answered before the Governor called the Captain again. ‘Through and through. Like a cannon. She must have tucked it in like this, close to her chest.’
‘Thought it was a FedEx or something?’
‘Yeah. One of the neighbors drove up, saw her lying there, thought Halloween, the Family, some kind of breakfast-time prank.’
‘Trick or treat. Fucker.’
‘Until she got out of the car, took a closer look. Could see the lawn clear through her body.’
Alvarez winced. ‘Shit.’
‘Just married, barely eighteen.’
‘No need to ask what next?’
‘Or where.’
‘My ears are still ringing.’
‘Almost blew me off the can,’ Marty said as he bit down hard on a fresh piece of gum. Cherry menthol filled his head. Not exactly his beloved roll-ups, but it would do. For now. He could see the Prophet, towering above them, guarding the city. Today, it was almost like the gilded statue was mocking them. He chewed harder, turned his head away. They rounded the corner into a wall of traffic stretching the few blocks to the call.
‘Fire ’em up.’
Alvarez flicked the switch. The sound was muffled, like they were underwater. ‘Thought you weren’t in a hurry.’
The traffic parted on both sides, the Red Sea cometh to Main Street. Up ahead a cloud of smoke four stories high signaled to them. Directly underneath it, the tangled remains of what was once a car. Close by stood a large group of gawkers crowded around something sprawled on the street. Body number three, thought Marty as he reluctantly swallowed the gum.
From the opposite direction he could see the fire trucks. No sign of any other cops yet, tied up with yesterday still. The precinct had been like a ghost town. Alvarez threw the car into a space close, but not too close to the hotspot. If the gawkers hadn’t trodden on all the evidence, there might even be some left without riding a ton of metal over it.
‘Get these people back, Al,’ Marty yelled as he jumped out of the car and moved fast toward the crowd. Alvarez matched him, step for step. They both reached for their badges.
‘Back it up here now, everyone.’ Alvarez’s don’t-make-me-arrest-you tone, one he’d perfected working the beat amongst Venice’s transients through its ’60s heyday and into its downward slide. Blood was creeping across the street. The guy’s leg was a mess. A hole in his chest. Knelt right beside him was a guy, no more than twenty-five, anointing him with holy oil from a small plastic bottle. He looked up at Marty. Saw the badge. ‘Where’s the paramedics?! He’s still alive. I thought he was dead. Me and this other guy dragged him away from the flames. I went to get the oil, I always carry it in the glove box, then he started moving, talking. I . . .’
‘He a friend of yours?’
‘No. I was just crossing the street when . . .’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing much, he was hallucinating. I couldn’t hear that clear. When are the paramedics gonna get here, he . . .’
Marty cut him off: ‘What do you think you heard?’
The guy looked confused. ‘“Sentence first, verdict afterwards.”’
Marty had heard that before, couldn’t for the life of him think where. ‘Was that it?’ Marty was knelt beside the guy now, in the warm blood.
‘No. He said, “We’re nothing but a pack of cards.”’
‘Nothing but a pack of cards?’
The guy nodde
d, looked anxiously back down at his freshly anointed patient.
Marty leaned in. ‘Sir, sir, can you hear me?’ Nothing.
‘He hasn’t said anything for a few minutes. Maybe he’s already . . .’
Marty pressed his face close, whispered in the victim’s ear. ‘Sir, do you know who did this to you? Sir?’ Still nothing. And now it was Marty’s turn to be ushered out of the way. Paramedics. As he stood up, the man suddenly seemed to come back to life, reached out to him. Marty noticed the tip of a finger had been blown off, the whole hand badly charred. ‘They’re trying to kill me,’ the soft raspy voice said.
‘Who is? Who, sir?’
‘Hartman. He’s trying to kill me.’
The man’s voice was low, raspy.
‘Hartman? Who’s Hartman?’ Marty crouched down lower, nearer the man’s mouth as he nodded weakly. ‘You got a first name for him?’ The man’s eyes closed. Marty shook him a bit. ‘Sir? This Hartman got a first name? Sir?’
‘Not now, Marty.’ He recognized Rob Peterson’s voice as he felt the grip of his huge hands on his shoulders, pulling him up and away. ‘You can ride with us. I’ll let you know when.’
Stray spray from the fire hose hit him as it found its target, what was left of the still-blazing car. Marty watched in silence as the evidence got washed deep into the city’s sewer system. We’re nothing but a pack of cards. The kid had heard it wrong. ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Alvarez who had snuck up from someplace behind him.
‘Alice in Wonderland. Used to read it to my kids. You read it?’
Alvarez shook his head. ‘Think I saw the movie once.’
‘Whoever wrote it was doing a lot of whatever passed for acid back in the day.’
‘He could probably tell you who wrote it.’ Alvarez beckoned to where the paramedics were gurneying the injured guy towards their truck. ‘Got a hit on the license plate, found it blown halfway down the block. If that car’s his, he’s a rare documents dealer. Clark Houseman.’
‘Documents?’
‘Yeah. Manuscripts, books, that kind of thing.’
‘What the hell has that got to do with yesterday? Peter Gudsen, Bobbi Lomax, they’re connected to finance. Property. Gone bad.’
‘I know. Maybe this guy Houseman was an investor.’
‘One of the disgruntled three thousand?’
‘Could be. Or maybe just a passer by?’
‘He’s convinced someone’s trying to kill him.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yeah. Some guy called Hartman.’
Al beckoned to what was left of the sports car. ‘He might have a point.’
‘You can’t have it both ways.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Hartman. Could be the best lead in twenty-four hours. He on the list?’
‘The investors list.’
‘Don’t remember seeing it. I’ll check later.’
‘Sooner the better. I’ll run it by dispatch. See if anything pops their end.’
Marty beckoned for Al to follow Peterson into the back of the ambulance, but before Al could step up inside the truck Marty grabbed his sleeve, held him back. ‘Al.’ Al stepped closer. ‘Page me if you get something.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
Al looked over at Houseman, his arm urgently being pumped full of something by Peterson. Silently, Al looked back at Marty. His eyes said it all. Marty shrugged, shook his head. ‘Who knows if he’ll make it.’
Al was up in the ambulance now. ‘Let’s hope he does. We could sure do with some answers. Anything.’
Marty smiled up at him. ‘Answers aren’t always the answer.’
2
July 4th 1982
Las Vegas
‘“Hold your tongue!” said the Queen, turning purple.
‘“I won’t!” said Alice.
‘“Off with her head!” the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.
‘“Who cares for you?” said Alice (she had grown to her full size by this time). “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”’
His head rested on her swollen stomach. It was a good place to be. She stroked his hair as he read. He loved being all the characters.
‘He kicked! Did you feel it, Clark?’
‘No.’ He looked up at her as she wriggled back up the bed toward the headrest. She almost blended in with the walls. Everything was beige and brown and tangerine. He followed her, until they were both leant against the headboard. At the foot of the room’s huge palatial bed, their toddler, Jack, played with colored wooden blocks, oblivious to Wonderland and the advent of a sibling. Edie put Clark’s hand on her stomach.
‘And again.’
‘Ssssh, let me feel.’
He waited. Nothing. ‘I told you he’d like it, didn’t I?’
‘You don’t know it’s a boy. It might be a girl.’
‘No, it’s a boy. And he’ll be a writer.’
‘A writer? Maybe a professor?’ said Edie.
‘Sure, better job security I guess.’
A knock on the door. The sitter. The usual instructions done, they were out and down the dark, narrow corridor, towards the elevator, Clark carrying his attaché case with him. Edie squeezed right up next to him. Edie had never been out of Canyon County before and he wanted to show her a good time. But first, business. And then they’d be able to splash on an upgraded room, a swanky restaurant and maybe even a show.
Downstairs, Edie stood amazed, soaking it all in. It was so noisy. So bright.
‘We’ll go on the slots later. After dinner.’
‘Do you think we should?’ Her teeth held onto her bottom lip.
‘When in Vegas.’
She smiled, then suddenly gripped his arm and sunk into his side as if trying to make herself invisible.
‘You OK?’
She peeked out around him. ‘I thought I saw Disciple Arbuthnot’s wife.’
‘Really? Well, if we see anyone from Mission, here of all places, as long as they keep our secret we’ll keep theirs. Anyway, it’s business,’ he rattled the attaché case. ‘Unavoidable – not my fault the dealer’s in Vegas.’
‘I got us a surprise, Clark.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Clark loathed surprises.
‘I called the concierge while you were sleeping.’
‘You did? What is it?’
‘That would be telling. You’ll see later. I almost forgot you had an appointment.’
‘See, you are having a good time despite the fact we’re in Sin City.’
She watched the room full of people, money being lost and won, and smiled, reluctant to admit he was right.
‘Just be sure, when we get back, you don’t let slip where we’ve been. Not to anyone, especially your sister, or your folks.’
‘I won’t.’
It was a short walk across the casino floor and through the casino complex to the dealer’s. He’d persuaded Edie to stop at a dress store en route, and left her there. He preferred to do business without an audience. A few minutes early, he wandered around the store. It was full to bursting with all kinds of original movie posters, sporting and music memorabilia, the usual slew of Elvis photos, most of which showed him in the Vegas years: overweight, clammy and in a clingy white spangled catsuit. Here, at the back of the store, was a whole different world. It was like he’d stepped into an Upper East Side old-school gentleman’s club, all mahogany panels and tan leather Chesterfields. The front of the store, the Elvis and friends section, was full of tourists, anxious to grab a bit of Vegas, a tacky slice of history to take home, something, anything, for twenty bucks. Back here there wasn’t anything less than two hundred. Clark gazed in through the mesh of an oversized bookcase. It was locked. Name after famous literary name crammed its shelves. Beside it, a small reading table. He rested his attaché case on it. Snapped it open. As he did so, Dougie Wild, the store owner, larded into view, puffing on a huge unlit stogie.
�
��Hey, you must be Cliff.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dougie Wild grabbed Clark’s hand and shook it. Hard. ‘Call me Dougie. You could have just sent these. I’ve a good courier, very reliable, the rest are all crooks. I’ll give you his details.’ Dougie looked Clark up and down. ‘Vegas is a long way across the desert.’
‘It’s good to get out of town, Dougie.’ Clark would have preferred to call him sir or Mr Wild.
‘Good to see who you’re dealing with, huh? I’m the same.’
Clark smiled, nodded.
‘It’s good to look ’em in the eye.’
Dougie took a drag on his huge cigar, seemingly unaware it was unlit. ‘What you got for me, then, son?’ He looked down at the writing desk where Clark had laid out the books, now unwrapped from their protective covers. Silently puffing, Dougie picked each one up and scrutinized it: spine, binding, inside, back cover, frontispiece, random pages. All of it. Clark knew better than to speak. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. Do you ever get any signed copies? Dedicated?’
‘Novels?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not really. They’re not really big on fiction . . . it’s not really encouraged.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot. What’s the Faith big on then, besides Bibles?’
‘Religious documents, manuscripts, hymn books, prayer books – all that kind of stuff.’
‘Sounds kinda dull.’
‘Hence, I’m selling here not there.’
‘Sure, I understand. I remember reading that guy – their Supreme Leader – has a secret vault stuffed full of documents no one’s ever seen. Doesn’t let anyone in. More secrets than the Vatican.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Makes you wonder what they’re hiding, doesn’t it?’
Clark spotted Edie pacing up and down outside. ‘How much, Dougie, for the books?’
‘Four fifty.’
‘Like you said, Dougie, we’re a long way across the desert.’