The Killing of Bobbi Lomax

by Cal Moriarty

Ron was picking up the fragments of letters. His brother had homed in on the letter Whittaker had tested and said was signed in human blood.

  They were silent for a minute. Marty didn’t speak, just nodded over to the waitress for another fresh juice.

  Rod spoke first. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry.’

  Marty thought he knew exactly what the documents were. He could read a lot of what was written there, despite the water damage, the charring through the pages. He just wanted to be sure. He had to be sure.

  ‘You must know what this is. Your father, he would have spoken of this,’ said Rod.

  ‘Please, Mr Rook. Tell me what you think it is.’

  Marty was no expert any court was going to listen to. If he had to he would call one or both these guys as experts. He also couldn’t lead the experts to their answer. He had to hear it from them, unadulterated.

  Ron was reading over his brother’s shoulder now. ‘How can this be?’

  ‘What do you think that letter is, sir?’

  ‘It’s the Letter of Accession.’

  ‘The Letter of Accession? That can’t be it,’ said Ron.

  ‘No. It can’t. This isn’t right. Can’t be right,’ said Rod.

  ‘And why do you think it isn’t right? Ron? Rod?’

  ‘But you know why, Detective,’ said Rod.

  ‘Please. I have to hear you say it.’

  ‘Because we’re the real Faith. Not them. Not Reno, not the so-called Real Faith, not the children of Rebecca and her son Jeremiah, but us, the children of Elizabeth and her son Abraham.’

  ‘And that’s what it says there, on that Letter of Accession? That Robert Bright chose Jeremiah to hand his Faith on to?’

  ‘Yes. From what I can read,’ said Rod.

  ‘These letters, eleven of them. Back and forth between the wives, disputing it all. They stop a few days before the war of succession began,’ said Ron.

  ‘Can you tell me if you recognize the handwriting of the women, of Robert Bright?’

  ‘Well, the women, yes. But there’s no extant handwriting to make a comparison with Robert Bright.’

  ‘So this could be anyone’s writing?’

  ‘Yes,’ they both said at the same time.

  ‘Is it in keeping with the period? Would you believe it was genuine?’

  ‘Examining it in these conditions, and with these letters with it – they came together, I presume?’ said Rod.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then they’re real,’ said Rod.

  ‘Or someone’s playing a very clever trick,’ said Ron.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Why do you have them? That’s what I’d ask you, Detective? Why don’t the so-called Real Faith have them? Surely, it’d be of benefit to them?’

  ‘Great benefit.’

  ‘How come the Police Department has them?’ He smiled at Marty. ‘That’s a rhetorical question.’

  ‘Well, we’d assume that, yes, they should be with the Real Faith. I can tell you one thing, they didn’t have possession of them, at least, not last. Which, of course, begs the question: why didn’t they have them?’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone over there?’

  ‘Not yet. I was waiting to hear your thoughts. Also, do you know why they would be going to a newspaper?’

  Marty pulled out the envelope, what was left of it, a fragment out of a square typed label. They could see Desert Times clearly. ‘By Hand’ printed above it. But whoever it was made out to just had a random e and a capital F left visible. ‘And do you know who this might be? Anyone at the paper interested in documents?’

  The men leaned over it together, and almost conferred silently before saying together, without a beat, ‘Debra Franklin.’

  ‘Is that the one that’s anti-Faith?’

  ‘A real troublemaker, Detective,’ said Rod.

  ‘So, if somebody wanted to create mischief, that’s who they’d send this to?’

  ‘No one better,’ said Rod.

  ‘Is that what you think it is? Mischief? It’s not genuine?’

  ‘I’m not sure until I can get it tested,’ said Marty. ‘But I’m always extremely dubious of things that show up miraculously after a hundred and fifty years of being missing and, in this case, no one ever seeing them before. Am I right?’

  ‘Your father taught you well,’ said Rod.

  ‘God rest his soul,’ said Ron.

  Hands clasped together. Eyes closed.

  Marty nodded, thank you.

  ‘No one has any record of the Letter of Accession. Nothing. The Faith likes to think of it as just that, faith in our path,’ said Rod.

  ‘The One True Path,’ said Ron.

  ‘If this is real, what do you think it would be worth?’

  ‘Oh, millions,’ said Rod.

  ‘How many millions?’

  ‘Really, however much someone would be prepared to pay for it. But at least two million.’

  ‘Have you heard of anyone offering it for sale?’

  ‘No,’ they said together.

  ‘But that would be very confidential,’ said Rod.

  ‘Yes. Imagine if the others got a hold of it,’ said Ron.

  The others. Reno.

  ‘That’s true, Detective. It would destroy us.’

  ‘Worth killing for?’ said Marty.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Rod.

  ‘Somebody might not want this becoming public property.’

  ‘Someone in the Faith?’ said Rod.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ said Rod.

  ‘If I had a document worth a good sum of money, who would I go to at the Faith?’

  ‘Well, we’re a good conduit.’

  ‘And if not you?’

  Rod held his hands up. ‘Dear Peter. Peter Gudsen. He always helped choose documents for us.’

  ‘He was the librarian?’

  ‘Not a librarian. An archivist,’ said Rod.

  ‘Did Mr Gudsen like to collect books – have a collection, do you know?’

  They both looked at one another. Rod nodded, Ron spoke. ‘Yes. It used to be coins. But he switched to books, manuscripts. Bibles, mostly. He always thought of them as investments. Also, first editions.’

  ‘He bought from you?’

  Rod looked around. The deli was still quiet. ‘Yes. Yes he did.’

  ‘But also from Clark,’ Ron chipped in.

  ‘Clark Houseman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Houseman.

  ‘If Mr Gudsen was unable to help, who else would help select documents and books on behalf of the Faith?’

  ‘Disciple Laidlaw.’

  ‘Alan Laidlaw.’ They both nodded.

  Marty had kept the covering letter he’d put back together. He had known, within just a few words of piecing it together, who was its author. More specifically, who the real author wanted it to appear to be. The phrasing was perfect, the handwriting even more so. But something was very wrong about the covering letter. Alan Laidlaw would never betray his Faith. It stated that the Faith was trying to buy the Letter of Accession and hide its truth from the world. The letter wasn’t signed and the name of the author wasn’t anywhere on it. But it wouldn’t have taken a reporter long to find its alleged owner. And with the writing so perfect it would be hard for Laidlaw to deny. No smoke without fire.

  Houseman was its courier. But that couldn’t be all.

  ‘Anyone else you know of, able to select documents for the Faith to acquire?’

  ‘Not until they were going to do the deal. Or if it was very important.’

  ‘Who would it be then?’

  ‘Either the Order of the Twelve Disciples or the Triumvirate, you know: the Supreme Leader and Disciples Laidlaw and Browne.’

  Was that so?

  ‘Is Clark still in the hospital?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Poor Clark.’
r />   ‘Do you know if Mr Houseman might deal in documents of significant monetary value?’

  ‘Clark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not exceptionally high value. Nothing like this. If this were real, of course.’ Rod looked at the Letter of Accession.

  ‘And he does bring a lot of things to us.’

  ‘He buys from us also, Detective. Regularly. Most weeks he’s in.’

  ‘What’s the highest-value item he’s ever brought to you?’

  ‘Oh, probably just over twenty thousand,’ said Rod.

  ‘What about the Peter Pan?’ said Ron.

  ‘The novel?’

  ‘Yes, Detective. But that was a fake. It doesn’t count,’ said Rod.

  ‘I guess so. Perceived value wasn’t what you meant, was it, Detective?’ said Ron.

  ‘When did he bring you the Peter Pan?’

  ‘Oh, recently.’

  ‘Could you be more precise?’

  ‘Probably a few days before Halloween.’

  ‘This Halloween?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Did he say where he got it?’

  ‘A yard sale, I think. On the road. He’s always out on the road. Buying and selling.’

  ‘He was very disappointed it wasn’t real. He tried to hide it, but I could tell,’ said Ron.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rod. ‘It would have been worth a hundred and fifty thousand retail if it was.’

  ‘Did he say how much he paid for it?’

  ‘Five hundred bucks I think.’

  ‘That’s a lot for a yard sale.’

  ‘Funny, that’s what I thought,’ said Rod. ‘But you find all kinds of things traveling. Often, people don’t know the value of what they’ve got. It was signed and everything – you know, by the author. I imagine they knew full well they were selling him a dud.’

  ‘Have you ever had reason to doubt any document Mr Houseman has brought to you? Or other books, coins. Anything.’

  ‘Clark!?’

  ‘No, Detective, we haven’t,’ said Ron.

  ‘Clark dealt with our father, even before we took over the business full-time.’

  Marty hoped he didn’t take too sharp a breath. ‘Do you know a Mr Hartman?’

  ‘Mr Hartman?’ said Ron.

  ‘Cliff Hartman?’ said Rod.

  Cliff.

  ‘Have you ever met this Mr Hartman, Rod?’

  ‘Oh no, Clark and any other dealer would never let us meet their sources. They keep us well apart,’ said Rod.

  ‘In case you cut out the middle man.’

  The brothers both smiled.

  ‘Do you know if he lives locally?’

  ‘I don’t think Clark ever said,’ said Rod.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been very helpful. Could I just ask you one more question? Do you have any idea who might want to kill you?’

  ‘Kill us? What on earth makes you say that?’

  ‘The car bomb was parked outside your premises. Deliberately, we believe.’

  The twins looked at one another, shook their heads. ‘No, Detective. We don’t know anyone who would want to kill us.’

  ‘We live our life in a good way.’

  ‘Sometimes that’s the problem,’ said Marty.

  Marty gathered up all the documents, paid for their breakfasts and left the Rooks sitting at the table. Identically silent.

  *

  Marty was barely two steps out onto the sidewalk when he saw Al, smiling, standing next to a cruiser. A large, bald man in his forties in back.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Meet Red Faber.’

  ‘Red Faber?’

  Al held his right thumb up. ‘Mr Fingerprint, actually Thumbprint. Same name as the old White Sox pitcher under Comiskey. Hard to forget. Parents must have been a fan, ’cos this guy sure ain’t him. Red’s dead. This one’s beat up, but alive. Come see for yourself.’

  ‘White Sox. Thought I knew the name from somewhere.’

  ‘I saw it on the investors list,’ said Al.

  ‘He’s an investor?’

  ‘Yeah, small used bills only,’ Al laughed.

  ‘All untraceable.’

  ‘You got it. He invested four K.’

  Al pulled Red out of the cruiser.

  ‘How did you get that black eye, Red? Stood too close to a bomb, maybe?’

  ‘You can’t arrest someone for having a black eye.’

  ‘Yeah, shame.’

  ‘He says he was in a bar fight in Callaghan’s. You know, over the county line.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I called the manager. You know him? Mikey.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘There was no fight in there anytime in the past week or so. Unusually.’

  ‘Maybe he had a run-in with his old lady and just doesn’t want to admit she won. Let’s see your hand.’ Marty grabbed the guy’s right hand. Scratches visible on the knuckles. ‘You got a couple in. How many she land?’ Marty looked at the guy’s face, at the yellowing eye. ‘Not that many, huh? Why was that, surprise? Is that what happened? You jumped this Hartman character for Lomax someplace he weren’t expecting you . . .’

  ‘I don’t know anybody called Hartman.’

  No, but the rest of it was correct, huh.

  ‘Shoved the paper in his face. Got him to sign. Is that all you used?’

  ‘Nope.’ Al took out a .45 from the back of his waistband. ‘He might have had help from his little friend. Loaded. One in the chamber.’

  ‘Expecting trouble, Red? Something tells me you’re going downtown. And maybe straight to jail if that violates your parole. He on parole?’

  ‘How did you guess? Rap sheet as long as your arm,’ said Al.

  ‘I told him,’ Red nodded towards Al. ‘That’s my old lady’s.’

  ‘Except there was no old lady anywhere around. No women’s clothes in the wardrobe. Nothing. So, the law assumes the gun’s yours. She got it registered, your old lady?’

  Red didn’t answer.

  ‘He was halfway out the drive with the car all packed up when I got there.’

  ‘Someone warn you we might be coming, Red? Tell you to run? What happened, didn’t get the message in time?’

  ‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Model citizen, huh?’

  ‘Not according to his rap sheet. I don’t know where he got the four K to invest, but I doubt it was his army pension.’

  ‘He got army bomb experience?’ said Marty.

  ‘Wasn’t in any of the bomb units. But, ’Nam? Who knows what went down over there,’ said Hobbs.

  ‘Who told you to run? Was that Lomax?’

  ‘I’m not saying nothing. You can lock me up if you want.’

  ‘I love to make people’s wishes come true. Don’t you, Al?’ Marty nodded towards the cruiser.

  ‘You’re a regular fairy godmother, Mart.’ Al shoved Faber back in the car, banged on its roof and watched as it took off towards the precinct.

  Al turned to Marty. ‘It might just be a weird coincidence, but Houseman’s got a bruised-up eye. At least he did the other day.’

  ‘Injury from the bombing?’ said Marty.

  ‘No, I thought so, but just thinking about it, it was starting to yellow. It had been there a couple of days at least.’

  ‘Well, this one is a few days fading,’ said Al.

  ‘Then I think the elusive Mr Hartman just moved well and truly out of the shadows.’

  40

  October 27th 1983

  Rooks Books

  He had to know. Had to. And they had told him. Straight. Right between the eyes. And they had all laughed about it together. Everyone makes a mistake. Not him. Not Clark. What were the Rooks talking about? It wasn’t five large, it was $580,000. Gone. Just like that. Only quicker. And with it, part of his dreams.

  He tried to focus on the call that should come later today. They would have had their time to pray, to seek guidance. He tried to tell himself that
everything would be OK. That they would say yes, and that showing the Faith up for what they are, frauds, would compensate him for the loss of his LA dream and all his money. If today worked, he would make over two million bucks.

  Two million.

  Plenty money to repay Lomax and go start his own collector’s store wherever in the world he wanted to. But it was no good, he couldn’t stay in the store, couldn’t make small talk with the Rooks, not now. He could feel something beginning to overtake him. He had felt it before when he had become Rebecca, when he had dug deep into her soul and Elizabeth’s to write those letters. Had felt the conflict of the sister-wives. Felt their rage and now it was welling inside of him. Their rage, their hatred, mixing with his own. He could feel it sucking him in, like the booze and the vortex had sucked him into other worlds, other lives. He had to get out of there. He had to.

  He’d parked in the rear car lot, so he could make a quick getaway and hopefully not bump into anyone on the street. He had just got to the car when he saw a flash of movement to his side, and someone jumped him.

  Before he could even react he was being dragged into the rear entrance of the empty store next to the Rooks’. Then yanked up by the collar, and as he got to eye level with the big bald guy his head was knocked sideways by a killer right hook. He stumbled backwards and pulled the guy with him, the guy lost his footing and almost followed Clark to the floor. Clark landed heavily, but managed to shoot his leg out quickly, unbalancing his attacker, who slammed hard into the wall. Clark tried to scrabble to his feet, but he was too slow and before he was even up on his knees the guy was on his back, pressing his face down into the cement. ‘I’m broke, buddy. You picked the wrong guy. Check the wallet, there’s nothing in it.’ It was true: the wallet was empty, but he had a wad of cash tucked into his inside jacket pocket. Hopefully this Neanderthal wouldn’t find it.

  ‘He told you to pay the money back, didn’t he?’ said the thug.

  Lomax.

  ‘It’s coming. I told him. These things take time. I’m not a magician.’

  ‘You don’t have any more time, Houseman. We’re sick of your excuses. He can’t pay us back until you pay him back.’

  He slammed something down next to Clark.

  ‘Sign it!’

  ‘Sign what?’

  Why was he asking questions? This goon would beat him to a pulp and probably enjoy it. Clark had been down in the den, at breakfast, had a drink. That was a lie, not at breakfast, for breakfast. He thought it must be making him irrational. The guy dug his knuckles into the back of Clark’s neck. Hard. Grinding Clark’s cheek into the ground. Shit.