by Linda Ladd
“Omigod, what are you doing?”
His mom was awake now and on her feet flying right at him. He brought the baby back over the ground and handed it over to her, glad to get rid of it. His mom grabbed it and glared at him.
“Are you out of you mind? What were you thinking? You could’ve dropped her!”
He thought his mom was overreacting a bit, but she was its mom and she didn’t know how firm a grip he’d had on it. He could have held on for ten or fifteen minutes before he had to let it drop. That’s how strong his biceps were from lifting all those weights.
His mom was still pretty pissed off. “You know better than to pull a stunt like that! Are you crazy?”
Well, he didn’t like that crazy crack much. “It’s not that far down, Mom. There’s a little shelf right under this cliff that would’ve stopped her, if I’d dropped her, but I didn’t, now did I?”
“Now don’t you get smart with me, young man. You just did a very stupid, irresponsible thing. I can’t believe you did that. And I’m going to tell your dad, you better believe it!”
She was acting so upset that she nearly dropped the baby herself, and the kid’s blanket came out of the mesh cradle thing and fell in the dirt. When his mom bent over to get it, Destiny in one arm, he snatched Destiny away from her, then shoved his mom hard in the chest with his palm. She went over the cliff backward, her face so shocked by what he’d done that she didn’t have time to put up a struggle at all; she just gave a short scream and fell like a rock down through the air.
A few seconds later, she hit that first outcropping of rocks, glanced off it, and somersaulted like a rag doll about halfway down the canyon before she came to a stop on a narrow ledge. She was probably already dead. The baby was crying now and he rocked it gently in his arms. He had an urge to toss the little kid over, too, and he started to do it, but then he decided that might not look right. He’d seen the crime shows on television where the CSI people could tell if a mother had been holding a baby when she fell by how far apart they landed and stuff like that. Maybe he ought to hold on to the baby and tell everybody he’d saved Destiny’s life when his mom tried to take the baby down with her. Yeah, that sounded really good. Liked she’d jumped and committed suicide. It would make him come off as a reallive hero.
Belatedly, he glanced around, afraid somebody might have appeared at the top bend of the trail when he wasn’t aware of them, but nobody had. He was pretty lucky sometimes. He looked down the cliffs again and saw that his mom still wasn’t moving and her arms and legs were all twisted around in impossible angles. There was blood on her, too. All was quiet, so he guessed she really was dead. He thought about that a second and wondered if he shouldn’t have done it. She was his mother, after all. Then he thought, well, so what? She shouldn’t have threatened to tell his dad. He sure wasn’t about to get grounded for holding Destiny over the drop, not with the baseball championship play-offs coming up as soon as they got back home.
Dad had enough kids anyway, and he’d saved Destiny for his dad to have. And his dad could find a new wife easy enough with all his money. Maybe a younger and prettier one. A tragedy like this would probably bring him and his dad closer together, anyway. It would be the best for everybody, except his mom, of course. But now she’d be with Lyla in heaven. She’d like that better than being alive, anyway, the way she’d been carrying on since Lyla died.
Standing there alone for a moment, he thought about how he was going to explain this one, and then he decided to just tell everybody that she’d tried to kill her baby but he’d grabbed Destiny in time, and she’d just jumped off in despair and committed suicide before he could stop her. He’d heard of postpartum depression, and he’d heard his dad ask her if she was having that once when she’d been crying and getting all hysterical up in their bedroom. She’d told him that she was thinking about Lyla, but hey, this idea was gonna work out just fine. Who in the world would ever suspect him of killing his own mom?
Mustering up a suitable amount of tears, he started down the trail at a run, yelling hysterically for his dad.
THREE
“Okay, Bud, we gotta check out Mikey’s apartment, so let’s just do it and get it over with.”
Bud did not look enthused, to say the least, and I sure as hell wasn’t champing at the bit to go inside and climb those stairs, either, uh uh, no way. But we needed to go up there and make sure no other victim was frozen solid in the freezer or slow cooking in a Crock-Pot or anything else equally grotesque. Ever heard of Jeffrey Dahmer, anyone?
Donning latex gloves and protective booties, we reentered the silent pizzeria and found the staircase that led to the second floor at the rear of the restaurant. The door at the base of it was unlocked and standing open, which I considered a good sign. Nobody locked in, nobody not wanting to be found, nobody hiding in a closet with a machete, I hoped.
Bud said, “I’ll take the lead.”
He was probably itching to shoot whoever had done this, but I didn’t argue. I stayed right on his heels as he inched slowly up the narrow steps to the door at the top. It was closed but also unlocked. We both drew our weapons, just in case, not about to become some psycho’s next baked entree.
Bud went in high and fast, me low, through a clicking, clinking curtain of red and blue Oriental beads that hung from the top of the door frame. It sounded like a bunch of scorpions scratching in a box, which I’d heard before, believe it or not, and it was loud enough to herald our presence to any lurking maniacs. Luckily, the apartment was as empty and silent as the restaurant below. Mikey’s living room was dark. In the deep gloom I made out a table lamp, headed for it, switched it on, and beheld Shangri-La.
Bud said, “I do believe our little Mikey might’ve been a Chinaman underneath all those preppy clothes. Don’t know why, just a hunch.”
I agreed. It appeared we had entered the Chinese Pavilion at Epcot Center or Scheherazade’s harem, take your pick. Silk adorned the walls, Chinese red, lots of black enameled tables, low ones, close to the floor with ornate carved designs. A thick, aromatic scent, strong incense, to be exact, hung heavily in the air, almost, but not quite, blocking out the horrible odor of roasting human flesh rising from the kitchen below. Maybe that cloying sweet aroma was coming from Mikey Murphy’s giant incense burner, one that had about a dozen sticks of incense sticking at various angles in some white sand, all still smoking and burnt about halfway down. More like a bloodred oriental urn, it sat inside the hearth and was about the size of a small microwave. An even bigger and shinier black statue of Buddha sat beside it, and the lush red satin panels with intricate black embroidery that draped the fireplace turned it into an altar and uncontested centerpiece of the room.
“That smell is sandalwood,” said Bud.
“How do you know? Got a pagoda down in the Georgia woods somewhere?”
“I used to date this girl from the Philippines. She always smelled just like this. Her apartment, too. She told me it was an aphrodisiac.”
Well, that was a new one on me. “No kidding?”
“That’s what she said. Worked for me, I can tell you. Ready to check this place out?”
“Yeah.”
In our usual tandem effort, we edged around opposite walls toward the next room. He took the hallway leading deeper into the apartment, and I took the dining room. They were clear, and when Bud called an okay from somewhere in back, I sheathed the Glock in my shoulder holster and examined the place. Michael Murphy had a nice little dining room, same red silk walls, no windows, but a big black lacquered table and china cabinet with a single blue and white Oriental tea set on a woven wicker tray sitting behind the glass doors. There were some bamboo place mats on the table, four in all and replete with place settings, black square dishes, and chopsticks. A real live orchid sat in the middle. In full bloom and well cared for.
Lots and lots of various sized Buddhas sat around looking fat and happy, and a particularly beautiful midnight blue silk hanging of Buddha in front of a
lake with snow-capped peaks in the background decorated nearly the whole wall at the end of the table. A bit incongruously, there were lots of amulets hanging around on the walls, too, one about every four feet on a parallel line, made of the same blue and white beads with black dots, twins of the multiple bracelets on Mikey Murphy’s stiff, dead arms.
I walked over, pulled one of them off the wall, and examined its fine craftsmanship.
“Looks like something ugly went down in the kitchen,” Bud said from the doorway.
“You find another body?”
“No, but something happened in there, believe me. Come see.”
I held up the amulet and said, “First, take a look at this, Bud. Look familiar to you?”
Bud walked over and took it from my hand. “What’d you think? A good-luck piece? Maybe the guy was superstitious. Thought somebody was after him.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m beginning to think he was right. Look around. He’s got them hanging up everywhere.”
“Maybe they’re just the opposite, maybe they’re evil amulets fighting off good. Makes more sense, judging by what’s gone down around this nutcase.”
“But why so many? He’s got them everywhere. I bet there’s fifty or more. That’s pretty much overkill, don’t you think?” I winced at my own terminology. Overkill was an understatement for the poor girl downstairs.
Bud shrugged. “C’mon, I want you to get a load of this guy’s kitchen.”
“Oh, God, the stove’s not on, is it?”
“Just come and see for yourself.”
I pushed through another shiny black swinging door and looked around. It was clean, modern, but turned completely upside down, stainless steel pots and pans thrown everywhere, on the counters, floors, in the sink. The oven door was open but nothing was inside, thank God, and every other cabinet door stood open, everything inside out on the counters, as if somebody had been scrubbing down the kitchen shelves. The refrigerator door was hanging open, fully stocked with all kinds of food. Not exactly the sign of an impending suicide. The weirdness of the scene was punctuated by a big spotlight pouring down on a white Buddha fountain in the middle of the center island, its quiet tinkling and soft splashes the only sounds in the silent apartment. More bamboo, silk embroidered hangings, and many, many strange silver-threaded, blue and white beaded charms hanging on the cabinet knobs. But no Crock-Pots, pressure cookers, or stockpots steaming with human body parts to be seen. God was good, or Buddha, in this case.
Bud said, “This place looks like a cyclone hit it.”
“Or somebody looking for something.”
Bud nodded. “There’s just one bedroom. Through there.”
I kept thinking some evil Mandarin overlord dressed in a long crimson robe was gonna jump out and get us with a curved scimitar, then dance through the air on tree branches, because that’s the kind of thing that’s been happening to Bud and me of late, but my stomach wasn’t quivering, my nerves weren’t on edge, and more important my trigger finger wasn’t twitching. I kept my hand on the butt of my Glock anyway, just in case my sixth sense was taking a break, you understand. Or Jackie Chan showed up.
We entered the bedroom, which was also ransacked, and I looked at the large round bed covered by a lush black velvet spread that had been thrown onto the floor. A giant Chinese symbol was embroidered in the middle, one that I am sure means something really gross. Red silk sheets were torn off the bed, too, and lots, and I mean LOTS, of velvet and silk tasseled pillows were scattered around all over the place. I wondered where the hell this guy found huge round red satin bedsheets at Lake of the Ozarks. But then again, his father was purportedly as rich as Oprah, so maybe he’d gotten them in his Christmas stocking or the Buddhist equivalent of Bed Bath & Beyond. Or maybe Oprah gave them to him at her favorite things show.
“Think he’s got enough freakin’ pillows?” Bud asked.
I looked back at the bed. “I’d say thirty or forty at the most, but that’s just on the bed. Gotta be twenty over there on the floor for emergencies.”
“I have a feeling overnight guests here don’t get to leave in the morning. Not in one piece,” Bud said.
I tried to force a smile, but it didn’t quite come off. We were trying, but making light of the situation wasn’t gonna happen. This crime was too horrific. I doubt if I’d be laughing any time soon, either, not that I ever did much. When I heard a vehicle pull up outside followed by the slamming of doors, I moved to the living room window, pulled back a silken drape, and saw Buckeye Boyd hustling his team inside the front door.
“Buck’s here.”
“Good, now they can get that girl outta that oven.”
“Okay. Let’s look around some more and see what turns up.”
There was a closet in the bedroom, actually more of an old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe. I opened it and found men’s clothes, many torn off the hangers, but all the same: preppy and pressed. Nary a black silk Marco Polo gown in sight. No tasseled silk hats, either, or woks, for that matter. He probably kept those in the kitchen, anyway.
Bud was going through the dresser and finding nada of interest. I poked through some drawers that had been left open in a bureau with a big round mirror. There were four blue and white beaded amulets hanging on the mirror; many, many more were tacked around on the walls. This guy had some serious issues. Trust me on that.
I said, “Mikey had a real problem with keeping his home protected, if that’s what these things are for. He should’ve just called Brink’s Home Security. Lot less gaudy.”
“Maybe he was trying to keep his victims’ ghosts at bay. Maybe he hung up one of those things for every victim he offed.”
“Well, that’s a pleasant thought, Bud. If I were some girl he brought up here, I’d start whistling psycho the minute I clicked my way through those beaded curtains.”
Bud said, “Yeah, but you’re not strung out on dope like they probably were. Take a look at this.”
I turned around. Bud was holding up a gallon Ziploc bag of fine white powder. He said, “He’s got to be a dealer with a stash this big.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“In that big red ginger jar.”
“What’s a ginger jar?” He pointed to the thing. I said, “How the hell do you know what it’s called?”
Bud said, “Mom made me one at her china painting class. I keep my bullets in it. Not into ginger much.”
“I keep my ammo clips in a walnut bowl on my bedside table.”
“That’s handy.” Bud was reaching down into the jar again. “Oh, boy, look what else Mikey’s got hidden away. Lots of little plastic Ziplocs to make up all his little eight balls. I think we got a drug thing going down here, Claire.”
“Looks that way. But why wouldn’t whoever tossed this place take the drugs? It stands to reason that’s what they’d be after.”
“Good question,” said Bud.
For some reason I was more intrigued by the amulets, or whatever the hell they were. I had a hunch they played a big part in this thing, whatever it turned out to be. I turned over the beaded charm in my hand and didn’t find a label or signature, but I didn’t give up. When I got to a very large one hanging on the wall over the bed, presto, there it was.
“This was made in Branson.”
“You gotta be kiddin’. A Chinese bracelet maker in little ole Branson, Missouri? That’s a new one.”
“Ever heard of a head shop or a New Age place down there? That’s probably the kind of place selling this stuff.”
Bud laughed. “What’d you think? I don’t think Andy Williams or Jimmy Osmond would stand for it. Not to mention all those buses full of senior citizens. Downtown Springfield, yeah, maybe. It’s gone a little bohemian lately.”
“We’ll check the phone book. And any head shops in Springfield, too. I’m guessing this guy is a regular customer wherever he bought this stuff. Maybe whoever sold it to him can tell us why he wanted so many.”
“Hell, he probably kept the
place in business, all by himself.”
As Bud went downstairs to get Vicky up to shoot the photos, I nosed around some more in Mikey Murphy’s desk, trying not to disturb anything. It was black lacquered, too, quite beautiful, and very, very pricey, if I had to guess. There was a hidden well underneath the writing surface, I knew that because Black had a similar desk in his house in Bermuda. I found the latch, pushed it back and voilà, there were a couple of photographs lying in the bottom, facedown.
“Aha, we got pictures here. Maybe it’s our victim.”
“Bingo,” said Bud, back already with Vicky in tow.
She said, “I’m going to start in the living room.”
We nodded, but we focused on the picture of a young girl smiling back at us so innocently. I said, “This could be the girl downstairs.”
“She’s got long black hair like the vic.”
“She’s Asian.”
“That fits with Mikey Murphy’s tastes, all right.”
Bud said, “Okay. She’s got on a Missouri State University sweatshirt. Maybe she’s a student down there. We oughta be able to find out her name at the registrar’s office.”
“Was a student over there, you mean.”
“Yeah. She looks too young to be in college. She’s petite like the vic.”
“Could be her. My gut says she is,” I said
“She’s pretty. Too bad she ever met up with Mikey Murphy.”
