The Killing of Bobbi Lomax

by Cal Moriarty

  ‘Is it a book? A pamphlet? A Bible?’ said Rod.

  ‘It is . . .’ Clark hoped the silence would sound like a drum roll. ‘A book. A collection, to be exact.’

  Clark held the slim volume up.

  ‘By an exceptionally important American author.’

  Ron looked disappointed. ‘You don’t usually sell books, Clark,’ he said as he peered over his pince-nez.

  ‘No, you’re usually buying them from me,’ said Rod. ‘I hope that doesn’t change.’

  It was true, Clark had spent or traded an inordinate amount of money on Rook’s first editions, ever since he sold his first coin, a forgery, to their father for fifteen hundred dollars when he was just fourteen. The penny Clark had altered had only cost a dollar, and he’d gotten the electro-plater for Christmas. He figured fifteen hundred was a pretty good return on a buck and a few teenage hours spent altering the coin. Collector’s magazines had respected his wish for anonymity and called it ‘an astounding find’. He grinned like the Cheshire Cat for most of the summer until it came time to go back to school. His mother, believing him when he said he’d found the coin on the street, had hidden the $1500 in her sister’s account so his father wouldn’t know there was spare money he could fritter away, or donate to the Faith in a vain attempt to curry favor at Mission. Instead, it had paid for Clark’s dorm the first year of college before he upped and quit, preferring to forge or forage coins than sit in a lecture theatre. He had already wasted a year on his calling for the Faith and didn’t want to waste another moment of his life in another institution.

  ‘Don’t worry, Rod, I’m still buying, that won’t change. It’s just this was such a special opportunity I couldn’t pass on it – it could be good for all of us.’

  Clark handed the volume to Rod, whose gloved hands were already reaching out for it.

  ‘A collector down in South Carolina, a guy I get a lot of coins from. His grandmother died. He doesn’t know a book from a rhino. He knew I knew something about ’em, so he FedExed all the old-lookin’ ones up to me last week, for my opinion. I didn’t even have time to look at them ’til yesterday evening.’

  Rod held the volume in one gloved hand, supporting it, cradling it like a newborn baby, and turned the pages gently with the other. ‘Well, I love Poe, for sure,’ he said. ‘And “The Raven”, first edition. 1845. Wiley & Putnam, of course. I haven’t seen one this fine before. It’s a beauty, Clark.’

  And then he saw it, the inscription on the frontispiece. Clark saw a light go on somewhere at the back of Rod’s eyes, his gaze suddenly more focused than before.

  ‘“Michaelmas, Providence, 1848.”’

  Clark could barely watch as Rod picked up his magnifying glass and peered down onto the page.

  ‘“For My Beloved Sarah – Love. Ever. Yours. Edgar Allan Poe.”’

  Rod looked up, trying desperately not to let Clark see how excited he was.

  ‘How much you looking for, Clark?’

  Clark smiled, but before he could answer he heard a woman’s voice outside thanking someone for a lovely lunch and then the familiar door bell jingled behind him as someone entered. He wanted to turn around, to see who it was. If Rod rejected the book, he didn’t want anyone else in the room eavesdropping, remembering faces, details. Failure.

  Ron looked up from his cataloguing. ‘Afternoon, Mrs Rose.’

  Clark couldn’t help himself. He had to look, it was an unfamiliar name, but it might not be an unfamiliar face. Someone from Jack’s kindergarten? A teacher? He couldn’t remember a Mrs Rose. A mother, perhaps? As he turned the very attractive redhead smiled at him. He nodded.

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am.’

  She smiled a wide smile. ‘Good afternoon.’ She turned back to Ron. ‘And good afternoon to you, Mr Rook.’

  ‘What may I help you with today?’ said Ron.

  ‘Just a small gift for Zachary. It’s his birthday Thursday.’

  ‘Sure, let me see what I can do. He had the 1924 penny last birthday, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did, what a good memory you have.’

  ‘Like an elephant,’ said Rod, not looking up from leafing very very slowly through the Poe volume, page by page.

  ‘Perhaps this time ’25 and ’26, they’re about the same cost total as the ’24 – is that what you’re thinking of, Mrs Rose, a similar spend?’

  Ron pulled out a tray and pointed with his gloved hands to the two pennies.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll love them. Thank you.’

  Clark looked over at the coin counter. Mrs Rose smiled back at him. Clark wondered if the ’25 penny was one of the 1923 ones he’d altered last year and sold to dealers far and wide, including Ron. If it was, it was pretty much worthless.

  ‘Clark, how much you looking to get, did you say?’ said Rod.

  Clark turned back to where Rod was still clutching the book. ‘Thirty-three hundred should cover it.’

  ‘That’s too much for this, Clark. It’s very good to fine.’

  ‘You just said it was fine,’ said Clark.

  ‘But it’s got some very small foxing and a tiny amount of sun damage. You know that reduces the value, a lot, even if it’s borderline.’

  ‘What I do know,’ said Clark, ‘is that Poe spent Christmas in Providence, Rhode Island in 1848 with his fiancée Sarah – and that, as this was his last published book at the time and she was one of his biggest fans, and a fellow poet, this inscription is where the book’s value really is. But if you don’t agree, I got to get the best price for my South Carolina contact, so I’ll have to send it down to Phoenix Books, see what they’d give . . .’

  The mention of a rival focused Rod’s mind.

  ‘Sarah . . . ? The fiancée?’

  ‘Sarah Helen Whitman. The poet.’

  ‘Of course. I’d forgotten. Poe was running around with so many women his last year, it’s easy to forget their names.’

  What Rod should have said was: I know that, Clark, I’d hoped you’d forgotten, or probably didn’t even know, you being a relative newbie in the collectors’ book trade. Clark moved his hand towards the book, as if to take it from Rod. Rod’s gloved hand moved it an inch or two out of Clark’s reach. Done. Now Clark knew that there was only the deal to be finalized.

  ‘Twenty-four hundred cash,’ said Rod.

  ‘How about two thousand cash and twenty-five hundred in first edition trades?’

  ‘You just said thirty-three hundred.’

  ‘That was cash, Rod.’

  ‘Two thousand cash and fifteen hundred in trades.’

  ‘Two thousand in trades. You know you’ve marked retail up fifty to eighty per cent.’

  ‘Two thousand, and seventeen fifty in trades.’

  Clark nodded agreement.

  As Rod took out his cabinet keys, Clark turned to Mrs Rose. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. You might want to pick the 1928. It’s a little pricier, but I hear it’s running scarce, so it might be a better investment for your son, Zachary, is it?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, my son. He’ll be eight.’

  ‘Something towards college, maybe,’ said Clark.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s kind of you. How interesting about the ’28. May I have a look at that one, Mr Rook?’

  ‘Sure can.’ Ron handed it to her.

  ‘How much is this one?’

  ‘More expensive, almost double. Two hundred and forty-seven dollars, even.’

  ‘I’ll take it. Why not? Like the gentleman said: it’s an investment.’

  Rod Rook finished opening up the first edition and high value cabinets and left Clark to choose whatever he wanted, to a retail value of $1750, while he went out back to the cash safe. It was the trades Clark really wanted, although the cash was good. He had his eye on a couple of the Faith’s early religious pamphlets and a first edition of The Wind in the Willows.

  *

  Outside on the pavement, Clark watched as the early winter’s snow fell on the city. It had already covered the peaks for a
month. The bulky wedge of cash in his inside jacket pocket and the very carefully wrapped volumes in his hand told him, should he have any doubts, that he had done it.

  15

  The Former Mrs Arnold Lomax

  He guessed she’d had the same hairstyle for a good twenty years, since back when they were fashionable. It nested on top of her head, like the beehive it was named after. But this one must have been sprayed with an entire can of lacquer to fix it in place. Marty thought when her hair ran loose, it must fall all the way down to her knees.

  She hadn’t seemed surprised to find them on her doorstep when she’d come back from shopping, and had made them lemonade from one of those frozen packets.

  After some small talk, they began. She told them she’d married Arnold when she was eighteen, same age as Bobbi Lomax as it turned out. Although, that time, Arnold was also eighteen, not fifty-six. They’d met at a Bible evening organized by the Faith. ‘If it wasn’t for my kids, Detectives, I’d wish I’d never gone that wretched night.’

  ‘What makes you say that, ma’am?’ said Al.

  ‘Well, I’m pretty much homeless and knocking sixty. My house, you been there, I guess?’

  The men nodded.

  ‘The house was owned by a corporation, or in some corporate name. Turned out Arnold was renting it off the corporation, we never actually owned it. I wasn’t even a tenant listed on the rental agreement. He threatened to have me evicted if I didn’t leave of my own free will.’

  ‘Evicted?’ said Al.

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t either of our property, you see. Although I know it was Arnold’s company, it’s impossible to prove if it’s offshore.’

  As she spoke, Marty realized that it was likely Mrs Lomax was the one who had tipped off the Feds about Arnold and his financials.

  ‘Mrs Lomax . . .’

  ‘You boys can call me Linda, I’m trying to forget I was ever a Lomax. Toying with the idea of going back to my maiden name. Deed poll if I can ever afford it.’

  Marty spoke quietly now, hoped it would make him her confidant. ‘Did you contact the Federal authorities about your husband, Linda?’

  ‘They say I’ll get a reward. Five or ten thousand, something like that. I can’t say I don’t need it. He cleaned out all the savings accounts and everything. And they said on TV that even all the company money has vanished into thin air. I think Peter Gudsen must have found out about the missing money somehow, raised his concerns with someone over at the Church.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Linda?’

  She looked down at her feet. ‘I know it was wrong, I just couldn’t help myself: most nights, I followed Arnold from work. One night, I thought he was going to meet Bobbi someplace, he drove right across town. Instead, he met with Peter Gudsen, over at Shaker’s Diner out near the freeway, and right after the meeting, Peter went over to the Mission offices. Perhaps he had another meeting. I just thought it was odd, that late.’

  ‘Did you follow him, ma’am? Peter?’

  ‘No. Peter was a wonderful man. Kind. His daddy, Derek, got him that job with Arnold. I was at high school with Derek. Guess Peter felt obliged to keep the job for as long as possible.’

  ‘Except perhaps when scandal might threaten his career with the Faith?’

  ‘Except. It was ten pm, Peter’s meeting over at the Mission offices. Who has a business meeting at that time?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Al.

  ‘I’d come to my senses outside the diner and headed back here. I was going to my son’s for a long weekend in Palm Springs. He’d sent me a plane ticket. I needed to pick up my prescriptions – ever since Arnold kicked me to the curb I’m on all kind of meds. Arnold and Bobbi deserved one another. A home-wrecker and a grade-A asshole. Excuse my French, Detectives. I stopped at the drugstore, picked up the tablets and as I’m driving by the Mission offices on the way back here I see Peter Gudsen getting out of his car. There’s a man loitering outside the entrance. He’s waiting for him.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘I was stopped at the lights for a little bit, but I didn’t recognize him. But Peter had his full Faith uniform on, I guessed he’d been to a meeting or Mission before he met Arnold. But maybe it was for that meeting. Ten pm meetings. I just thought it was odd.’

  ‘That’s the kind of time you don’t want anyone to see who you’re meeting,’ said Marty.

  ‘Especially downtown, it’s like a ghost town that time of night,’ said Al.

  ‘Maybe having lived with Arnold’s “meetings” at all hours of the day and night makes me over-suspicious. Maybe it was nothing to do with Arnold’s sinking business, but one thing I do know is, the man and Peter, their handshake was kind of abrupt. You know, not friendly, kind of forced.’

  ‘An errant member of the flock, perhaps? He was of stature in the Faith, wasn’t he? Peter Gudsen?’ said Marty.

  ‘Yes he was. And I don’t know what Peter would be doing with another errant sheep. Unless the Faith had tasked him with someone in need of a shepherd. Arnold was probably enough trouble, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Are you saying that you think Peter knew in advance that Arnold’s business was fraudulent in some way?’ said Al.

  ‘No, but I’m thinking that if he had suspicions he would confront Arnold and then inform the Faith. He was devoted and I think Arnold and the Faith had many dealings over the years. Maybe in this latest venture also.’

  ‘So you think that the Faith had investments in Arnold’s business?’

  ‘Businesses, don’t you mean? Arnold had so many businesses spread all over that it cost me twenty thousand dollars in accountants’ fees just to try and make sense of it. And by the time I had, all the money had disappeared somewhere else. From the records my accountant found Arnold had been doing business in this way for over thirty-five years, straight out of business school. Knowing Peter, it was probably more a case of him wanting to try and stop any small investors, people who had staked their entire futures on this investment, from losing it all, not the Faith’s investment. The Faith has plenty of money. Over ten billion a year, if you believe what you read in the LA Times and all the rest of them. Saying that, the Faith would not be happy for the bad publicity and bringing inquisitors to their door. Not happy at all.’

  ‘Enough to try and silence Arnold?’

  ‘You think Arnold was the target, not Bobbi?’

  ‘What makes you think Bobbi was the target?’ said Marty.

  ‘Because she’s the one who’s dead.’

  ‘It was a bomb, left – we think – right outside the front door, Linda. Anyone could have picked it up,’ said Al.

  ‘Well, who would want to kill Peter Gudsen?’

  ‘What if you’re right, Linda?’ said Marty.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That Peter Gudsen told the Faith something was awry with Arnold Lomax’s property deals? But if he did, and assuming the Faith was invested heavily in those deals, then word may have got back to Arnold. How do you think Arnold would have reacted to being betrayed in that way by his business partner, even an ex-partner?’

  ‘Oh, he would have been livid. Look what he did to me and I was the one who was betrayed, not the other way around. You think Arnold killed Peter? Oh my . . . what about Bobbi, do you think he killed her?’

  ‘We’re not saying he killed anyone, Linda. We’re just putting the alternatives out there,’ said Al.

  ‘Arnold’s a sneaky, cheating son of a bitch, but a killer? No way.’

  ‘Have you heard the name Hartman? Heard your husband mention it?’ said Marty.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It’s just a name came up, that’s all. When you were married to Mr Lomax do you know if he had a life-insurance policy out on you?’

  ‘No, I can’t imagine so. I was a home-maker, I didn’t bring in any income, what would be the point of insuring me?’

  ‘To help pay for the funeral? Put the kids through college, that kind of thing,’ said Al
.

  ‘We never discussed it. I hate talking about death.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to know, Linda, that a policy was taken out on your life in 1954 by Mr Arnold Lomax with the Northwestern Insurance Company?’ said Marty.

  ‘What?’ She spun around in her seat towards Marty. ‘Arnold never said anything about that. How come my accountants didn’t find it?’

  ‘Maybe they weren’t looking properly.’

  ‘How much was it for?’

  ‘One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. That policy continues to this day.’

  ‘Today? But we’re divorced!’

  ‘Insurance is like gambling. You can bet on anything as long as you can pay the wager,’ said Marty.

  She sat still now, silent. Trying to take in this information. Then, realizing: ‘Did he take one out on Bobbi?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. With the Golden Gate Insurance Company in the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

  Linda Lomax burst out crying. Marty and Al looked at one another. Was it because Arnold had insured Bobbi for twice as much as her? Or was it more a fear–shock thing because, worth way more dead than alive, Bobbi Lomax had ended up very, very dead, while the less-valued Mrs Lomax was still alive – but still worth $125K to a man with a rapidly disappearing portfolio.

  Marty nodded to Al to move over to the couch to comfort her, while he made towards the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water. But he would hold back a few minutes until he couldn’t hear that sobbing any more.

  After some soothing chat from Al and a few drenched Kleenex she seemed recovered. Marty had forgone the water – instead, he’d made her some hot sweet tea. It was a small kitchen, everything had been to hand and relatively easy to find in the lightly stocked cupboards. He guessed it must have been a release to cry. But if he started he didn’t know if he would ever stop.