I could still smell the sharp odor of burned gunpowder—plenty had been burned, six shots had been fired in this room—but it was almost overpowered by the sour stink of the newly dead. Everything that had happened earlier to the cowboy when he'd flopped unconscious at my feet, and more, had happened to this guy, doubled and redoubled. Maybe that's life's final indignity: the slimy stink in your pants when it ends.
I bent over the man, gingerly patted his pants pockets, pulled out a key ring, dirty handkerchief, black plastic comb with several teeth missing, handful of change, and a brown leather wallet. I put everything back except the wallet, flipped through it. Several C-notes and some smaller bills—I didn't count them—credit cards, a driver's license.
The Arizona license had been issued to Claude M. Romanelle, of this address on Desert Fairways Drive, Scottsdale, AZ. Height 6'0", weight 145, hair brown, eyes brown, age 58. It was signed in the same graceful script I'd seen on the document in Worthington's office. In the lower right-hand corner was a small color photo of—the dead guy. The man I'd just killed.
That would have caused an even more severe commotion in my digestive system if I had not already seen those credit cards issued to somebody named Frederick Keats. I pulled Romanelle's license from its transparent plastic envelope—and there beneath it was another driver's license. Frederick R. Keats, Tempe, AZ, address. 5'11", weight 170, hair brown, eyes blue, age 54. The small color photo was identical to the one on Romanelle's license. With that obvious clue in my hands, I could see that the duplicate on Romanelle's license had been glued onto the plastic. I could feel the ridge made by the substituted photo's edge, rather than the plastic rectangle's normal smoothness.
I stuck Romanelle's license into my pocket. I wasn't certain it was a 100-percent-wonderful idea for me to take that ID, thus removing significant evidence from the scene of a crime, especially not with Paradise Valley police cars already on their way here—and, by now, a lot closer. However, I wanted a leisurely look at that concealed photo of Claude Romanelle. It seemed high time that I found out, for sure, what my missing client looked like.
So I stuffed the dead man's wallet into his pants pocket and ran back outside, piled into the Chrysler. Spree already had the engine idling and was seated on the passenger's side of the car.
There wasn't any conversation until we were back on Lincoln Drive. During that time I felt under my coat and shirt, fingered my left shoulder. That arm was throbbing, the point of fire only a small blaze now, but constant. There was no difficulty in moving the arm, just increased pain, running from shoulder to neck, when I lifted it. So I didn't lift it much. But with my fingers I felt the wetness, traced the pulpy furrow on the outside flesh just below the bone, barely below. I wiped my fingers on a handkerchief and stuck the folded cloth over the moist furrow, drove with only my right hand on the wheel.
Two police cars were coming this way, red and blue lights flashing on their roofs. I pulled to the right of the road as the white Dodge sedans with blue stripes along their sides whipped past us, siren on the lead car wailing like a great cat being pulled apart on a rack.
The first word of conversation after I got the car moving speedily again was “Whew,” from Spree.
“Two or three whews,” I said. “That was close."
“Close back at that house, too. What—what happened there, Shell? That couldn't have been Dad. I know it wasn't."
“You're right, it wasn't. Guy named Keats, and I've never heard of him. But how did you know? Did you see something—?"
“No, I just knew, somehow, I'd never seen that man before. Not when I was a child, not ever. But I wasn't certain what to do, and walked over to him. Then, after that, everything happened so fast..."
“It was supposed to be fast. Over in a hurry before the questions started. But if there were questions, Keats even had a faked ID to con me with. And, Spree ... well, I owe you. The trouble you gave that guy probably saved my life. Strike ‘probably.’ I know it did. After that first shot he never had a chance to aim."
“Mostly I was just trying to get away from him.” When I glanced at her she added with a soft smile, “Mostly."
“Thanks anyway, Tiger."
“You don't owe me anything. I saw you. I remember those few seconds so clearly I'll never forget them in my life. You just stood there, all squatted down like a huge rock, with your gun pointed right at us. And you didn't shoot at him for ... it seemed like forever. You could have. I know you didn't shoot him because I was so close. You don't have to tell me, I know. But, Shell, you should have."
“Well ... maybe I would have, if I'd been carrying my own gun. But I'd never fired that Smith & Wesson even once. Might have shot my own foot off."
“Uh-huh.” Spree was silent for a few seconds. “What now?"
“First thing, and one of the many reasons I didn't want to dance around all night with the cops, is to get you somewhere safe. Get you tucked in until I can figure out what's next."
“Tucked in?"
“Figure of speech, dear. Same thing as behind locked doors and barricades."
“Uh-huh."
I could drive way the hell out of town, I thought, up north to someplace like Carefree. But that would be too far away for me to handle all the things I felt I'd have to do in the next several hours. And it would mean, too, when I came back to Scottsdale or Phoenix I'd have to leave Spree alone for too long. Much longer than I cared to.
So I slowed for the light at Lincoln Drive and Scottsdale Road, made the green, and turned left, heading north. Then I said to Spree, “I want your opinion. You're the lady at risk here.” I listed some of the options, including twenty-miles-away Carefree, and finished, “We're almost at the Registry Resort. Maybe if we pull in there very speedily, and I register alone but for two, man and wife, Mr. and Mrs. William Williams, say, you'll be tucked away about as safely as anyplace else. Maybe not, but—"
“Safe enough,” she interrupted. “You're the one who's probably going to get shot."
“Thanks a lot—"
“But also, you ought to get rid of this car pretty soon, shouldn't you?"
“Even sooner. That Simpson guy, the doctor, there's no guarantee he checked the plates. No guarantee he didn't. But he for sure knows we're in a year-old Laser."
The swank Registry Resort, less than a mile north of the Scottsdale Road and Lincoln Drive intersection, was on our right. I eased into the driveway, avoided the entrance, and kept going until I could park far back at the rear of the hotel property in near darkness.
I unlocked the trunk, opened my suitcase, uncrumpled a wide-brimmed hat I'd packed and stuck it atop my white hair, traded my torn and bloody coat for a blue leisure jacket. Then I left Spree locked in the car, and started walking up front to the Registry's main entrance, having a hell of a time carrying Spree's two bags and my big suitcase. But the rest of it was easy.
When I walked into the Registry's spacious and lovely lobby, taking a deep breath of air-conditioned coolness as the melodic tinkle of softly played piano caressed my ears, for a strangely disturbing moment it was an almost physical shock to realize that all of this was going on at the same time and in the same world as the one in which I'd just shot and killed a man named Frederick Keats.
Little more than three miles from here, a photographer from the Paradise Valley police department might by now be taking pictures of the corpse. But blending with that bloody image in my mind were mental snapshots of well-dressed men and women strolling through the Registry's lobby, laughing, heading for bars or restaurants here, or out there on the town.
Instead of the stench of feces and urine, blood and burned gunpowder, in my nostrils were the faint and delicate odors of foods and spices from luxurious La Champagne and chef's hors d'oeuvres from the Fountain Bar here in the lobby, mixed with the too-sweet scents of perfumes, after-shaves, paints and powders. Too sweet? Maybe not.
At the desk, I asked for the quietest and most private rooms available, registered as Mr. a
nd Mrs. William Williams, then rode with the bellman transporting our luggage to villa 333—which turned out to be one of the “bilevel suites” separate from the two-story main building, in the rear and not far from where I'd parked the Chrysler.
Inside the suite I glanced around the downstairs sitting room, shower and dressing area, wet bar, then followed the bellman upstairs and into the single bedroom. There were two double beds side by side up here, another bath, closet, outside sun porch. I gazed about at this with an air of languid disinterest, mumbled, “This'll do,” as I handed the chap five bucks, still uncouthly wearing my wide-brimmed hat. I figure if you pay three hundred and eighty-five bucks a night for lodging, you can uncouthly wear any damned thing you want to.
The bellman smiled with moderate enthusiasm, or about five bucks’ worth, placed my key on a dresser, trotted down the stairs and left.
I'd carried both guns, concealed on me, to the villa. There'd been only three cartridges in the Colt .45 when I took it from the cowboy outside Worthington's office. Coincidentally, the Smith & Wesson revolver also had only three slugs in its cylinder now—because I'd put the other three into Frederick Keats. That gun, therefore, was very hot, and so, if my identity should become known, was I. Still, I left the more familiar snub-nosed .38 in my clamshell holster and put the Colt automatic on the closet shelf far back against the wall.
Then I got gauze pads and tape from my suitcase and went into the bathroom for some do-it-yourself repairs. Five minutes later I had a reasonably comfortable and secure bandage taped to my left shoulder, and was wearing a clean white sport shirt with the white trousers and blue leisure jacket. Five minutes after that Spree was in the villa with me.
She looked around, quickly inspected the upstairs and downstairs, then came over to where I stood near a dark wood cabinet enclosing the color TV set.
“You travel first-class, don't you?"
“Nothing but the best for my wives, ma'am."
“How nice for us. And I am now Mrs.—who? Mrs. what?"
“Close,” I said. “Mrs. Williams."
“Of course. Silly of silly me to forget so soon, Willie. I suppose I call you Willie?” Spree batted long thick lashes rapidly at me, either coquettishly or in an attempt to air out the room.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I registered as William. So you may call me William. Not may, must. Outside this room, anyhow."
“OK, Bill."
“No, no—you're much too sophisticated to call a William a Bill. Except ... well, maybe when we're intimate, like taking showers together, or..."
She was giving me a very bleak look. “Mr. Williams, weren't you going to move our Mercedes? Or Rolls? Or Porsche?"
“Sure. I'll move all three of them. Or—which one did we bring?"
“We flew."
“Ah, yes. Well, I'll go park the plane. As for you, kid, park that sophisticated bod in yon bed. When I return, I will watch over you all night long like your guardian Willie."
She looked up at me for a moment, then leaned closer, lifted her face, and kissed me quickly, gently on the side of my jaw. I put my hands on her shoulders, slid them around her back, and pulled her close. It was another one of those impulses. A nice one. Spree didn't pull away, just sort of snuggled against me as if this were something we'd practiced forever. I hugged her gently for a few fine seconds, then let her go.
And out I went. Into the Valley of the Sun. Into darkness.
It was over an hour before I got back to the Registry. I parked the Laser two blocks from a VOS Car Rentals office on 40th Street in Phoenix, left it there with the keys beneath the floor mat. Then I walked a mile to the nearest Hertz agency, address from the Yellow Pages, and rented a dark blue Mercury Capri. For the second time tonight I had to produce my driver's license and a credit card in my name; and while, so far as I knew, nobody was yet looking for Shell Scott except perhaps a few crooks, at least two of them with severe headaches, leaving this kind of paper trail gave me a definitely uneasy feeling.
When I let myself into suite 333, all the lights were out except for one table lamp upstairs in the bedroom.
Spree was in bed, asleep. Her face was soft, relaxed, very young. She looked at that moment about sixteen years old. At least her face did. But she must have turned, moved, after falling asleep. The blanket and a pale green sheet were pulled down to her waist. She wore a simple nightgown that covered everything normally covered. But it was white, lacy, not completely opaque. And those magnificent breasts swelled beneath the cloth, prominent nipples and large shadowy areolas only half concealed.
I pulled the covers up beneath her chin, and then she looked sixteen again. Long, slow breath ... making a small p-p-p sound through her barely parted lips when she exhaled ... lashes like long thin shadows under her eyes.
I took off my jacket and shoes, pulled a large overstuffed chair next to the bed, put the revolver on a nearby bedside table, then turned off the light and settled down in my chair-bed for the night.
Spree must have heard me. Or almost did. Or dreamed it. Because I heard her say very softly, “Shell,” but it sounded like a muffled “Shlull?"
I turned toward her, putting my hand on the bed.
In the darkness, she reached out to me, touched my fingers. Said something completely unintelligible, barely audible, ending in p-p-p. I gripped her hand gently, held it like a bird. Not hard enough to squash it, but not so gently it could fly away.
It didn't. Not until dawn.
Chapter Eleven
Morning.
I awakened slowly, like a beast rising from a murky swamp, to small sounds of movement, another melodic sound almost like a woman humming...
I rolled over but kept bumping into something. My left shoulder burned, the arm was heavy. There was a small tight spot at the base of my skull. I peeled my eyes open, saw the arm of the chair I was collapsed into. Memory limped back. The sound I'd heard was a woman humming, moving about. Spree. In another minute or two I heard her coming up the stairs. She looked around, then she walked over and beamed down at me.
“Hi, there,” she said brightly. “Up and at ‘em, it's a beautiful morn—"
“Don't try any of that stuff with me,” I said.
“Oh ... I forgot,” she said.
I clambered to my feet, made it into the bathroom for a quick shower, careful of the shoulder bandage, shaved and dressed. Then I joined Spree below in a little alcove, kind of a dining area, and sat down across from her at a small square table.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Welcome to the world. I've been up for over an hour now. You hungry?"
“No."
I noticed a cart on wheels, tray atop it, glasses and silverware and dishes on the tray. Spree followed my gaze and said, “I've already eaten. Called room service—didn't want to waken you."
I was no longer asleep, but not yet wide enough awake that I was thinking like lightning. Still, her comment bothered me. I said slowly, “I don't think your calling room service was such a good idea. The idea is for you to hide here, unseen, unapproachable, like Rapunzel in her castle tower—"
“Shell, it's too early for poetry, even though I have been awake for an hour. And I had the waiter leave my tray outside the door, then brought it in myself a minute later."
“Good thinking. I don't suppose he was still lurking out there, maybe holding his palm up for a tip?"
“Of course not. At least ... I didn't notice anybody. And you'll add a nice big tip to the check for him, won't you, Mr. Williams?"
“Sure. I'll give him some of my old Krugerrands. Well, room service sounds good about now. How's their coffee here?"
“I'll call and order you a nice breakfast. Eggs, maybe?"
“I knew you'd say that. But no. Absolutely not."
“Well, what do you want? Don't you like eggs in the morning?"
“Not before I've eaten. I'll just have coffee."
“Oh, Shell, you've got to eat. A big man like you—"
/> “Here we go again,” I said glumly. Not to her. She was a woman. She wouldn't listen. She was going on about proteins and carbohydrates and even vitamins and minerals.
“Just coffee,” I interrupted. “And a piece of toast. And you'd better be careful—"
“White, whole wheat, rye—what kind of toast?"
“Burned."
She cocked her head on one side, then the other. “You're not a barrel of laughs in the morning, are you?"
“Sure I am. Not after I wake up, of course. Not right after."
She went to the phone. Soon there was coffee and a piece of toast. Burned. The Registry is a class resort. Spree had one cup of coffee with me. I had three, plus the delicious toast. And I began to think the world was a marvelous place to be.
Before finishing my last cup of hot strong brew, I went through the Scottsdale and Phoenix telephone books. There was no Robert Simpson, M.D., listed, so I called both the Maricopa County Medical Society and the Arizona State Medical Association, but neither group carried such a doctor on their rolls. So all I had was memory of the man's fat pink face, bald head, heavy chin—and the fact that he owned, or at least drove, a black Lincoln sedan.
No Kay Dark or Kay Denver was listed, either, but Exposé, Inc. was—at the Hayden Road address I had already jotted in my pocket notebook.
While at the phone, I made a call to a financial reporter on the Phoenix Gazette, whom I'd met on my first trip here, when on a case involving a group of mafiosi at a senior citizens housing development called Sunrise Villas.
According to him, Exposé was a monthly publication devoted to gathering and publishing “inside” and/or “exclusive” information about business and investment frauds, scams, rip-offs, and cons, but also about legitimate enterprises deserving, in the opinion of the editors, of plugs or applause for being notable examples of “the best of free-enterprise entrepreneurship in action.” So they touched upon the best from time to time, but concentrated on the worst most of the time.
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 16
