"Tch-tch. You seemed to have scratched yourself on our hedge," Johnny K. said. "That could be a problem."
Brad looked down. An angry red welt showed where his forearm had brushed the belladonna bush.
"A problem for you, I mean." Johnny K. smiled like Stanley Kowalski cornering his pesky sister-in-law, Blanche. "I think we've had this date from the beginning," he said as Brad slumped to the floor.
Brad felt himself being picked up and carried down the hall where he was unceremoniously dropped onto Hayden Rosengarten's oak desk. Through bleary eyes he saw the lens of a camera pointing at him.
"Time for your close-up," Johnny K. said.
He stood back and tugged on his T-shirt, pulling it overhead like a man born to take his clothes off. A large '.K' was tattooed on his chest. And there was the snake coiled on his right shoulder. It was him!
"How do you feel?" Johnny K. asked. "Is your mouth dry? Vision a little cloudy? Those are the first symptoms. Heart palpitations should follow."
Brad tried to speak, but no sound emerged.
"You'll probably experience a few hallucinations, too," Johnny K. said as he unhooked Brad's belt and slipped off his pants. "Pretty soon you'll fall into a coma and your vital signs will cease," he said. "Poor you."
He held up a vial of white powder and sprinkled some on the back of his hand. "Too bad you're not a drug user," he said. "All it takes to counteract belladonna is a little opium... like this." He sniffed sharply and the powder disappeared up his nose.
He placed the vial on the desk a few inches from Brad's head. As much as he would have liked to, Brad couldn't coordinate his muscles to reach out and grasp it.
He tried to concentrate, focusing on the 'K' on Johnny K.'s chest. "Nice tattoo. What's the 'K' stand for?" he gasped.
Johnny K. smiled. "Karma," he said. "Meet your fate, Bradford Fairfax."
His hands ripped open Brad's T-shirt, exposing the wings on his abdomen. "Hey! Nice tattoo, yourself."
Brad heard the slither of leather against skin as Johnny K. slipped deftly out of his pants.
"I think this has your name on it," Johnny K. said, grabbing Bradford's legs and hoisting them over his shoulders.
Brad looked down. The letters Y-O-U-R N-A-M-E were etched from base to tip on what was truly a magnificent piece of equipment.
Not exactly B-R-A-D-F-O-R-D F-A-I-R-F-A-X or even S-E-B-A-S-T-I-A-N O-'S-H-A-U-G-H-N-E-S-S-Y, but hardly a disappointment, Brad thought, watching it disappear one letter at a time. Maybe dying wasn't so bad after all.
"You fuck real good," Johnny K. said with a sneer. "But I bet you hear that all the time."
The words came to him through a haze. Brad tried to focus, struggling for clarity.
"In fact, you fuck better than your dead boyfriend."
Ross's face rose before him. Something powerful reared inside him as Brad's mind clicked back to full consciousness.
"Bastard!"
With one solid blow Johnny K. flew backward into the filing cabinet and slumped to the floor.
Brad quickly had the top off the glass vial and took a sniff. Johnny K. was right—a snort of the white powder cleared his head of the last vestiges of fogginess.
He soon had the bodyguard's arms secured with his own belt. Then he dragged him toward the wall and felt around for the hidden panel. Sure enough, a door slid open.
"I'll let you know when it's time to come out," he called to the groggy figure bound hand-and-foot and lying on the floor of the secret chamber.
Brad went over to Hayden's desk and dialed the police. Tom Nava came on the line and Brad explained where the murderer could be found, along with an intriguing library of videotapes.
"You doing my job for me now?" Nava grunted.
"Consider it a favor," Brad said.
He hung up and got dressed, and then walked over to the camera. He rewound the tape and pushed Play. On screen, his limp body appeared at the mercy of Johnny K. Brad couldn't help noticing the smile on his face.
He watched for a moment longer, then turned off the camera. If he destroyed the tape, he reasoned, he'd be tampering with evidence. Then again, did he really want this shown in court? He stuffed it into his pocket. It would make a nice little addition to his collection of autoerotica.
36
Sometime during the night Hurricane Isabel slammed into the North Carolina coast at more than one-hundred miles an hour, leaving a trail of havoc in her wake. She then headed inland, turning north and away from Cape Cod before beginning her inevitable descent into a tropical storm and finally to a wisp of a breeze that would be scarcely a memory for most people within a week.
That night Bradford slept a dreamless sleep. When he woke, he checked his answering service but there was nothing from Zach. He felt let down. He would've liked some small reminder of Zach's presence, especially since they'd spent the night apart. Maybe Zach was already getting cold feet. Either that or the seriousness of the situation had dawned on him and he'd been scared off at last.
The only message was from Grace. She congratulated him on capturing Johnny K. and said the tip about the gun had panned out. They'd located it off the end of the pier in about ten feet of water. It had turned out to be a Colt .45, as they knew it would. All that remained to be seen was which gun the bullet had actually been fired from—Big Ruby's or Johnny K.'s. The gun had been surprisingly easy to find, Grace added, almost as an afterthought.
Brad was left to read into that last remark as he brought his breakfast out to the veranda. He looked down at his abs, remembering the bodyguard's magnificent body, and pushed aside half a bagel covered in cream cheese. Time to get back to the gym, he told himself. That's how it always starts. You take your mind off it for a day and bingo!, flab starts forming like ice crystals on a window. At first it's a thin coating, then next thing you know it's so thick you can't see out.
He watched his abdomen expand and contract with each breath. These days, just dieting wasn't enough. You could be out at the gym feeling great about yourself when some muscle queen with a three-percent body fat ratio catches your eye and paranoia strikes a home run. Do I have love handles? Wobbly thighs? Why do I stay home watching TV when I could be in here pumping iron another five or six hours a day?
The phone interrupted his self-reproach.
"Care to take your sugar to tea?" It was Cinder.
They confirmed for a pleasant little seaside cafe, then Brad phoned Zach's guesthouse. There was no answer. He left a message saying where he could be found.
Cinder was waiting outside the cafe in a frilly knee-length skirt and bobbed platinum wig, his arms covered in silver bangles. Was this Marilyn? Brad wondered. It wasn't trashy enough to be Madonna.
"Neither. I'm Renée Zellweger in Chicago," Cinder announced when he asked.
"Thoroughly Post-Modern Cinder," Bradford said. "And just about as up to date as a girl can be."
At that moment a gym queen strode past in a thong and sleeveless T-shirt. Brad's eyes wandered over the man's flawless physique.
Cinder shot him a glance. "Fashion Rule Number One: a thong is always wrong," he stated categorically. "Remember that, handsome."
Brad brought Cinder up to date during lunch, mentioning that he'd been able to ascertain the validity of Johnny K.'s status as a legend, without going into too much detail.
"You lucky tart! Well, now that you've got things all wrapped up here, I suppose you'll be going home soon," Cinder said.
"That's likely, but I come back once or twice a year, so I can catch your show again some time."
Cinder reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. "So sweet," he said. "But I still find it hard to believe it was Johnny K. I mean, I know he was a vicious thug but I didn't think he was a killer, too!"
"Appearances can be deceiving," Brad said.
"How did you end up fingering him?"
"Someone sent me a tape of Hayden sitting in a bathtub. In the mirror I could make out a figure threatening him wit
h a gun. When I slowed the tape, I saw a tattoo on the killer's right shoulder."
Cinder grabbed Brad's arm. "You don't mean the 'Oh, it's so big, shoot me!' tape?"
Brad started. "How do you know about it?"
"Honey, we all had to audition for Hayden. That was his favorite scenario. He liked his boys big and deadly. I'm pretty handy with a gun myself, if I may say so, though I doubt I'd ever match Johnny K.'s stupendous nether regions..."
Brad was staring at him. "Are you saying the tape isn't real?"
"No, honey, I'm sure it's real, if you saw it. What I'm saying is, we all made a 'bang-bang, you're dead' tape with Hayden. I think he wanted it in case anyone tried to blackmail him, so he'd have something on each of us."
Brad's head was reeling. It had all been a dress-up game! "Then who...?"
Cinder was shaking his head. "I think you got the wrong killer, hon. Now who do you think would've sent you a tape like that?"
"I've been trying to figure that out."
"Well, it had to be someone with access to the Ice House."
"I've been wracking my brains to think what Ruby and Ross and Hayden all had in common..."
"They were all Buddhists..." Cinder said, with a wave of his highball glass.
Brad smiled. "Very funny..." Suddenly his smile vanished. He snapped his finger. "They were all Buddhists!"
"I just said that."
"And who would they have had in common?"
"Well, there was that car guy. Come to think of it, he was at the house the night Ross died. I was sure surprised to see him there, but he's quite the hotcha-hotcha hunk with his clothes off, let me tell you."
Brad was perplexed. "The 'car guy'?"
Cinder's forehead scrunched in concentration. "Yeah, you know," he said, shaking his bangles. "That nummy guy at the funeral. The Rim-Porsche-something-or-other."
"Oh, God!" Bradford said, recalling his dream where the rim flew off the Porsche and chased him and Zach down the hill.
And that's when he remembered Zach saying he was going to learn the hundred-syllable mantra with the Reluctant Rinpoche that afternoon.
"Zach's with the Rinpoche!"
37
Cinder was a surprisingly good runner in women's flats.
"It's all that marathon training," he shouted, as they raced toward the Buddhist temple. "I just hope we get there in time!"
That thought was uppermost on Bradford's mind as they ran. Once there, however, he was less sure what to do. From outside, the building appeared sedate. The Asian characters above the door probably said Welcome, Fellow Buddhists, but at that moment they seemed much more dire in their directive.
"This is no good," Brad said. "We can't be seen standing here." He thought for a moment. "Look, I've got to get around back and see if I can get inside. Can you do something to distract attention away from me?"
"Honey, my entire life is about distracting attention away from other people and onto myself. Just leave it to me," Cinder said, already approaching the front door.
Brad waited a beat before slipping into the yard. It was cut off from the property next door by a large and very full hedge. At least this one was only honeysuckle, he noted. Brad passed a side window as a fierce-looking Asian man came into view. He ducked behind the hedge and the window slid to a close. No further alarm was sounded. He hadn't been seen.
A knocking reached his ears. "Hel-l-o-o-o?" he could hear Cinder call out. "Is anybody homo?"'
Good boy! Brad thought as he moved toward the back of the house. The yard yielded little coverage as he crossed the overgrown garden. A wind chime tinkled at his approach. He tried the porch door. It opened and he slipped inside.
Brad proceeded cautiously down the hall, keeping his eye open for a hideaway in case anyone approached. He heard Cinder at the front door asking to see the 'Rim Porsche.'
"He no here," a man's voice replied.
"I'm having a crisis of spirit," Cinder cried. "I need guidance and you could be just the man to help me."
Brad took advantage of the distraction to slip upstairs. He searched quickly. The second floor was unoccupied. It wasn't until he reached the third floor that he smelled incense coming from under a closed door. It opened onto a dim interior. Bookshelves flanked a window at the far end and curlicues of smoke encircled the room. A body lay stretched beneath the window.
Zach!
Brad ran over and shook him.
"Zach!"
He was breathing, but he didn't move.
"Ah! Mr. Bradford," said a voice from behind him. "Don't worry. I haven't harmed him."
Brad whirled to see the Rinpoche seated on the floor, completely at ease in a lotus posture.
"You, on the other hand, may be in for some rough treatment."
"Your English has improved," Brad said.
"Thank you. I wish I could say the same for my Tibetan. I can't speak a darn word of it apart from a few phonetic readings from that illustrious fairy tale, the Book of the Dead"
"You won't get away with this," Bradford said. "There are four people at this very moment who are aware of the fact that you offed Hayden Rosengarten, Ross Pretty, Big Ruby, and James Shephard."
The Rinpoche laughed. "And are those people Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Bette Davis, and Renée Zellweger, by any chance?"
The sarcasm stung, but Brad decided to overlook it.
"You see, Mr. Fairfax, this meeting isn't by chance. I've known all along that you would stumble onto the truth. I've even prepared for it."
"And what truth is that?"
"That your friends were getting too close to something for their own good, which is why, as you so cleverly put it, I 'offed' them."
"The P'Town murderer," Brad said.
"I humbly accept the honorable title," he said, with a slight incline of his head.
"Why Ross? He could never have hurt you!"
"So true! But an eager young proselyte who discovered his Rinpoche at a house of disrepute might speak about it sooner or later. I couldn't take the chance it might be sooner. I was as surprised to see him there as he was to see me, but the damage was done. I'm sure the bardo must have looked lovely on an overdose of Ecstasy."
"And James Shephard?The boy on the beach? Is that why you drowned him?"
"Precisely. Both knew me as the Reluctant Rinpoche. And both were such promising young students, too."
Brad drew a breath. "So why Big Ruby?"
The Rinpoche shrugged. "Regrettable, I must say. She made the best lattes on the Cape. But I couldn't have her telling you that I'd borrowed her gun, could I? For ceremonial purposes, of course. At least, that's what I told Halle the night I came over. Halle would never suspect me, but you'd already spoken with Ruby."
"So you sneaked into the Ice House and shot Hayden Rosengarten in the forehead, then vanished with the tape of your own visit the night you killed Ross. And on the way home, you tossed Ruby's gun into the ocean in a place that would be convenient to find—with a little tip-off."
"Precisely."
"And was it you I overheard threatening to kill Rosengarten on the telephone a few nights before?"
The Rinpoche's face showed surprise. "My, but you do get around."
"You're the 'queer fish' he threatened to expose to the world."
The Rinpoche smiled. "Yes. I need to maintain my status as a visiting Rinpoche for a while longer. As you may have guessed, I have important work to do in the next day or two."
What work could that be? Brad wondered, as his father's words returned with a vengeance: Everyone has a reason for the things they do. You don't have to like or agree with it, but you'll be better off if you understand it.
Here was the real motive. He was standing before the intended assassin of the Dalai Lama!
In a flash, the Rinpoche flew through the air, landing on one foot while lashing out with the other. Brad ducked in time to avoid a vicious kick, but the Rinpoche's hands transformed into whirling blades of destruction.
I thought that happened only in old Bruce Lee films, Brad mused, as he assumed a defensive posture. Hands flew swifter than the eye. Feet kicked out with brutal savagery as blows were countered and returned with infinite precision.
"I see you've mastered a few of our martial arts skills," the Rinpoche noted as they circled the room. "I will enjoy this. To conquer one worthy opponent is better than vanquishing a thousand weaklings."
As the man spouted philosophy, Brad saw his opportunity. His foot flew out and connected with the Rinpoche's shoulder, but he received a swift blow in return. He struck again immediately, causing the Rinpoche to double over in pain. Brad's knee came up and caught him square in the jaw. The Rinpoche's face contorted in surprise and anger.
"You're not that good!" he snarled.
Big mouth, Brad thought. You can't talk and fight at the same time. You're using both sides of your brain and one of them has to take precedence. But while Brad was thinking, the Rinpoche was also busy looking for a point of weakness. His heel connected with Brad's thigh, sending him reeling. He followed up with a kick to his side. Brad staggered and fell.
This wasn't a Kung Fu movie. They both knew an accomplished fighter could kill an opponent with a few swift blows. Brad looked over at Zach's unconscious form and felt a surge of love. I have to save the kid! he thought, staggering to his feet. One good strike was all he needed to deliver.
But Brad's strength was nearly gone as the two parried and danced around in what was more a John Woo ballet-de-violence than a Bruce Lee tour-de-force. He might never land that final blow.
Just then the door opened and Thoroughly Modern Cinder came cracking down on the Rinpoche's head with a heavy metal frying pan. It should have been a wok, but it was a mere skillet that left Renée Zellweger crying tears of joy over the expensive oriental carpet.
In a true martial arts tale, it would never have happened that way. It must be the hero who triumphs against all odds, never the blonde femme fatale and especially not the blond-devestato man wearing a frilly oop-she-bop dress and size thirteen women's flats. But this wasn't a movie, and so be it. Happy endings sometimes came true in the most unexpected ways.
P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery Page 21
