by John Donohue
“There are any number of explanations, I suppose,” he began. “People have a hard time accepting accidents of this type.”
“Were they close?”
Fiorella pushed off the bar and we headed off in another direction, away from the crowds. “That type of closeness is not something I tend to associate with Lori,” he said judiciously. “Her father had been mostly in and out of her life at best until a few years ago.”
“What happened? Late life crisis of conscience?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Drunks get that way. I’m not discounting it.”
Something in his voice told me that he was skeptical. “But what?” I pressed.
He grinned, and the lines at the side of his eyes creased in pleasure. “It’s my own little theory that he had bought that big place out in the hills with the idea of turning it into some New Age retreat center. And maybe, because he was a flake and drinker, he realized that he needed a little help with the project. You know, math and contracts and managing the help…”
“Lucky he had a daughter with some real world skills.”
Fiorella snorted. “You could say that. She’s a tough cookie. Anyways, I’d be surprised if some of their newfound affection wasn’t fueled by a profit motive.”
“How nice,” I commented.
“The world’s a complex place, Connor. You see it for what it is.”
I’d heard that before from my brother. “So they had some mutual business interests. But why her insistence on pursuing the murder theory? It’s not an insurance issue is it?”
He shook his head. “Investigation would slow down a settlement.”
“She the sole heir?”
“Yep. All the ex-wives are dead. No other kids.”
“So,” I pursued, “then I don’t get it. Is it just that she’s got this fixation and isn’t used to being told no?”
“There may be some of that,” he admitted. “But she’s someone who’s got her emotional side pretty well caged up. I’m like you—I can’t quite figure the angle.” We wandered along a twisting path, the blank walls of private patios and carefully manicured bushes offering a sense of privacy to the conversation. “And I don’t know whether I really have to.”
“She’s got the money to pay for any investigation she wants, I guess.”
“And she usually gets what she wants,” Fiorella concluded.
“It’s a bit cynical,” I commented. We emerged into a more open area, turned left and found ourselves at my suite.
“I read about you, Connor. All the Asian martial arts stuff.” He paused. “What’s the definition of the word samurai?”
I was monetarily puzzled at the change in topic. “Well, they were the hereditary warrior class of feudal Japan…”
He waived the explanation away. “What does the word mean?”
“Oh,” I said, getting his point even as I spoke. “It means ‘those who serve.’”
Fiorella stopped and smiled at me. “The lady’s father dies and she’s got money to spend to make sure nobody’s overlooked anything. Who’s it gonna hurt? The guy’s already dead. In the meantime, you get to spend some time out here in the sunshine.” He smiled pleasantly. “Get yourself settled in. I’ll have the crime scene report sent over for background. I’ve also got some biographical stuff on Westmann. Have a nice dinner, maybe a swim. Tomorrow, I’ll take you out to his place. All the books and notes are in his library there.”
It seemed fair enough. I shook his hand and headed toward the door. Then a thought occurred to me and I turned to ask a question.
“Charlie?” He stood smiling, squinting in the sun.
“Anybody who might have a grudge or motive, however farfetched? Anybody in the mix here look like they were hard enough to do Westmann in?”
“Connor,” he laughed. “You mean outside of you, me, a coupla dozen members of the Tucson underworld, and your fabled Asian assassins?”
“Yeah.”
“The only other person I can think of is the nice lady who employs us.”
Now there was a comforting thought.
5 Jizo
In Japan, small stone statues of Jizo stand silently in deserted places and graveyards. In Buddhism, Jizo is, among other things, the patron of travelers and pilgrims. I stood in the dust of the high desert, watching the eyes of the men surrounding me. Jizo often carries a six-foot staff. I wished I had one with me now.
I’d picked up a hotel car that morning and followed Charlie Fiorella out into the hills toward Westmann’s desert retreat. We wound our way up along roads that were increasingly devoid of signs of human presence, with only power lines strung along the wayside to serve as a connector to town.
Westmann had used some of his abundant royalty money to invest in a failed resort property that he had attempted to transform into a personal refuge and a mystic conference center. He gathered transient groups of like-minded “seekers”: kids pushing the envelope of life, rejects from interdisciplinary graduate programs, and old hippies nearing retirement who were saddled with money to burn and a backlog of unanswered questions. He called it The Kiva, after the ritual centers of the old pueblos. I read the report that Fiorella had provided about the place. I wasn’t impressed: it seemed both self-indulgent and unfocused. The Kiva consisted of a few hundred acres with several unattached buildings clustered around a central courtyard. You came into the property through stone pillars artfully crafted to look ancient. The road dust helped as well. We got out of our cars. The sunlight was white with intensity. In the quiet, you could hear a faint musical tinkling coming from a wind chime that moved fitfully under the eaves of a deep front porch. Our car engines pinged faintly, throwing off heat into a world that was already far too hot for my taste. There were a few pickups with a contractor’s logo on the doors parked in a steadily diminishing pool of shade. Other than that, there was no sign of life.
The main building was a big two-story adobe affair. The door was unlocked, and we moved gratefully into the dark coolness of the interior. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the glare of the courtyard. The first floor featured a great room with a cathedral ceiling and a stone fireplace big enough to cook a bison . There were clerestory windows high up along the walls, and shafts of indirect lighting cut through the space. There were smaller rooms for conference groups and a kitchen and dining area to the rear. The second floor was entirely occupied by Eliot Westmann’s personal quarters, including his library. It was where I’d spend most of my time.
We walked up the wide flight of stone steps that led to the second level. I tried not to look down for stains.
Charlie read my mind. “This is where the old man took the fall,” he confirmed. The staircase grew wider as it led downward, a dramatic architectural sweep that must have been designed to permit truly memorable entrances from above. Unless, of course, you got totally smashed, lost your footing, and tumbled down. The stairs had small risers and the steps were made from gray flagstones, dense and hard-edged. I imagine that falling down them would not be an esthetic experience—the only thing they offered was a series of punishing blows on your bounce to the bottom.
Westmann’s library had a wall of tinted windows that provided a vista of the dusty hills as they tumbled down into the rough and broken desert terrain that stretched out to Mexico and beyond. His desk was set at an angle to the wall of glass, and I could imagine him sitting there, rubbing tired eyes and turning to face the wide world, to escape for a time into the expanse of tan and brown and faded ochre that waited out there under a wide and uncaring sky.
The other walls were windowless and packed from floor to ceiling with books and unbound papers stuffed in dark brown file folders. There was a worktable in the center of the room with a few hardback chairs around it. The desk itself was devoid of clutter. A flat computer screen stood in isolation on the polished expanse of cherry wood. I looked around the room expectantly, as if something there would help give me a sense of Eliot Westmann. I looked in vain. There
were no posters or paintings. No decorations of any type. None of the other typical junk you find in people’s offices, either: plaques, odd statues, paperweights, souvenirs. And no photographs. There was nothing in the room to give me a sense of the former owner’s personality, that he had been connected to places and things other than those in his own mind. Eliot Westmann’s sparse legacy was a steely-eyed daughter and the books and papers in the sagging shelves all around me.
I looked at Charlie. Wiped my hand along a bookshelf. “This place has been cleaned since he died, hasn’t it?” It looked too tidy. Most writers I know have working spaces that look like a tornado has recently blown through them.
He nodded. “Sure. The Criminal Investigations people from the State DPS took a look, dusted for prints in various rooms.”
“Anything unusual?” I knew I wasn’t supposed to be involved in this end of things, but hanging around with my brother has had an effect on me.
Charlie smiled knowingly. “No identifiable prints other than Westmann’s and the staff. Some smudges of indeterminate origin. Mostly, the state guys were just going through the motions to make Lori happy. Short of a message written in blood on the wall that said ‘I did it,’ it was pretty clear that Westmann got loaded and took a header down the stairs. End of story.”
“And yet…” I started.
“… here we are,” Charlie finished.
“I hate spinning my wheels,” I told him.
“Easier to take when you’re on an expense account,” he reminded me. Cop wisdom.
We agreed that I had better get started, not that I was entirely sure what that meant. Contrary to appearances, Charlie said there were staff members around and they’d take care of me. I walked him downstairs and out onto the porch. A big van with the hotel logo on its side curved into the courtyard, kicking up some dust. A bunch of people swathed in sunscreen, large floppy hats, and sensible shoes emerged. The driver popped out and began unloading daypacks and camelback water units out of the rear of the van. He was dressed in hi-tech outerwear—what looked like climbing pants, a white sleeveless shirt, and well-worn hiking boots. His long jet-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His skin was burnished a deep reddish brown and his eyes were hidden behind wraparound sunglasses with lenses that shimmered in a rainbow effect. The man with the ponytail glanced at us, but gave no sign that our presence had registered at all.
I looked at Charlie and nodded at the van. “What’s this?”
“Desert hike. Part of the service from the hotel. This place has lots of trails and Lori’s been encouraging their use.”
“Who’s the driver?”
Charlie snorted. “The Chief? His name is Rosario Contreras. Outdoor freak. Hiking. Rock climbing. He works at the hotel setting up desert excursions.”
“Chief?” I asked incredulously.
He grinned. “Nah, I just call him that to needle him. He’s big into Native heritage on both sides of the border. Calls himself Xochi.”
“Showchee?” I asked, and Charlie spelled it for me.
“That’s not Spanish,” I observed.
“No. It’s something different. Aztec or something.” He jutted his jaw out in mock seriousness. “Reflects pride in heritage.”
We watched the group get organized and head off down a path that led out into the surrounding hills. I peered out at the sky from the cover of the porch. “Call me crazy, but if I were taking a walk around here, I’d do it really early or really late.”
Charlie nodded. “So you would think. But you’re a practical guy. Not an entrepreneur.” I looked at him quizzically. “He takes them out for a hike,” he explained to me. “They stumble around for twenty minutes, worried about rattlers. He tells them about rocks and stuff. By this time, they’re swimming in sweat. They take a break for a while and drink most of their water. They gasp their way back to the van. Then back to the hotel and into the bar for something cold and frosty. They pay for the hotel room. They pay for the guided trip. And they pay for their drinks.”
“Ecotourism,” I commented. “It’s a beautiful thing.”
“Lori says it’s a form of recreational synergy,” Charlie commented.
“What’s that mean?”
“That she’s found another way to squeeze money out of her guests, I guess.”
“She’s an evil genius,” I laughed.
Charlie Fiorella made his way to the car and looked at me over the open door. “Hey. That’s my employer you’re talking about. I prefer to think of her as a fearsome yet creative presence.” He gave me a grin and drove away.
I spent most of that day getting organized and dreaming up a strategy. I had some biographical stuff on Westmann and a list of all his book publications. I’d also searched the Internet for any related sites that could flesh out his profile. I got into some on-line archives that had old reviews of each of his works. I did a lot of cutting and pasting and saving stuff to disk.
But I knew that I was simply dodging the inevitable. Eventually, I was actually going to have to read all the stuff he wrote. I had a vague recollection of looking at his books years ago when I was young and impressionable. Even then, as naïve as I was, I had put Westmann’s work down, convinced that the guy was a fraud. And I had seen nothing in the literature from the academic community that suggested anything different. Yet it was a type of opinion that was widely held even though the reasons were not particularly well documented. People had suggested that Westmann had recycled excerpts from various obscure tomes, fit them together into an outlandish fantasy of his own making, and then tried to pass it off as scholarship.
In some ways it was a beautiful scheme. The world of academia is like most other worlds—filled with fine people, but also with its share of freaks and phonies. Mainstream scholars dismissed Westmann, but somewhere in the few thousand obscure little colleges around the country you could always find some charlatan with a shaky Ph.D. who’d defend what one book dust jacket described as “a groundbreaking exploration of a secret world of mystic warriors, penned by a courageous scholar.”
In the post-modern academic world, truth is often alleged to be relative. Westmann’s stuff didn’t seem plausible? Who are we to denigrate an individual’s unique perspective? Nobody seemed to be able to substantiate his claims? Nobody could locate the leader of the secret society who was his main informant? Easily explained. It’s a secret society.
It all made me roll my eyes. Serious readers with any familiarity with the topic would simply dismiss Westmann’s stuff. And few people would have the need or the time to do a very thorough research job to prove or disprove his veracity. Only a nut would devote any time to this.
Or someone in the pay of Westmann’s daughter.
I sighed and pulled his books off the shelf, lining up copies of reviews for each of them. Then I went back to the Web, tried to track the book reviewers down, and e-mailed a message outlining my purpose to the ones who were still alive, asking whether they could point me in any direction. No sense reinventing the wheel.
The task was uninspiring and I grew antsy. I looked out through the wall of glass at the shifting patterns on the desert floor below me. I thought about the group from the hotel. Maybe a little hike to end the day?
The van with the tourists was long gone. I headed over to the gravel path that led out into the rough terrain around the property. A finely-crafted wooden sign with a vaguely Indian stick figure pointed the way onward. Who was I to argue?
The sun was dropping down and the wind, while hot, offered the illusion of relief. I wandered down the track, thinking of nothing in particular, just glad to be moving. I could see boot prints from the tourist group in the dust on the path. It wound up and down slight inclines. In a few places, it paralleled the edge of the ridge to permit panoramic views of the desert floor. The rocks around me were awash in the rose-orange glow of a setting sun, silent watchers, stolid sentinels who would never voice an alarm.
After a time, the path ended in a small, bould
er-studded cul-de-sac. This was obviously the limit of hotel adventure. I, however, am made of sterner stuff. I noticed a very narrow trail leading up through the boulder field and over a ridge. I followed it up.
Here, the view was even better. I could look back and see the buildings of the Kiva, lit up by the sunset, and an even wider expanse of desert terrain, studded with lengthening shadows. The pathway arced away around the hillside and out of sight. In another ten minutes or so of walking, the ridgeline began to soften and the incline leading to the lower elevation became more gradual. I came across what looked like a four wheeler track. It crossed the path I was on and sloped down the hill. I looked at the setting sun, aware that I didn’t want to get stuck out here after dark. But I figured that I still had time. Roads always lead to something. Way out here, I wondered what that was, so I took a left and began to follow it down.
In retrospect, I should have been more alert, more sensitive to the subtle vibrations that could have warned me that this was not a good idea. I could argue that I was in a strange place, a very different environment and that the sensations, while present, were not familiar enough yet for me to interpret. But there’s no real excuse. My sensei admonishes us that there are two important things in a warrior’s life: intention and result. And results matter more. Excuses are both meaningless and potentially distracting. Which means they’re dangerous.
I was bounding along the track as it switch-backed down the slope, loose limbed, and just enjoying the hike. So I pretty much blundered into their midst before I or they knew what was happening. The old battered Jeep Cherokee was covered in dust and old baked-on mud splatters. So were the men standing around it, smoking. They were in work clothes, wearing construction boots and frayed, sweat stained hats. Their skin had been burned by desert labor and their brown eyes were bloodshot from heat and sweat and work. These guys saw a great deal of the outdoors. They probably preferred dark, cool places. So if they were here, it was for a reason. And it wasn’t to admire the sunset or take in the scenery. I also noticed that one of them held a pair of binoculars and a small radio.
