by Alex Ames
The thud came a second later, followed by more voices from downstairs. Inside my room, I could hear the door opening and voices coming in. A Mexican face looked through the smashed window, looking down, muttering something intelligible that could qualify as a small prayer.
The light went on in my room, bathing the flying curtains and the ragged edges of the window glass in yellow light. More people looking out of the window, each and everyone stared down. They could make out the dark smashed shadow below.
Then I could hear Ron’s voice, full of fear, his heavy steps as he ran toward the window, “Calendar, where is she?”
Someone tried to hold him back but he managed to wrestle himself free. “Let me through, you morons.”
His face was full of worries as he stuck his head through the window, looking down. “Shit, Moonstone” was all he could mutter, his face a study of pity and sorrow, drawing in breath through his teeth.
“Meow?” I said with a weak voice.
His head snapped around as if he had been slapped in the face and he saw me.
“What the hell are… ”
“Help me in, please, will you?”
Ron brought me to his room; he actually carried me, because as soon as my legs hit regular ground they simply stopped working. The adrenaline rush was over, my batteries depleted completely.
Ron removed only the necessities—tucked me in and guarded me. People came and went; most of them just appeared in a haze. Lobos was there, interviewing me gently about the dead piece of meat dressed in black in the backyard. Fowler paid his respects and a doctor came by and took a look at my back, where the prowling stranger had hit me with what appeared to have been a small sack of lead pellets. In gentle soothing Spanish, which Lobos translated for me, the doctor explained that had it met my head, my skull would have caved in for sure.
I was cold to no end and the last glimpse of that long day was Ron sitting beside my bed in the light of the nightstand lamp, looking down at me. Before I could take the courage and energy to ask him to cuddle up with me, just to hold me warm, I was already gone.
Chapter 33
THE NEXT MORNING, sunshine fell into the room, friendly sun. I blinked and found Ron snoring under some newspaper on the small couch near the window. My bags were stored in the corner. A quick cat stretch brought me back to reality, my back hurt like hell.
A hot and cold shower and an inspection in the mirror, half of my back was black-bluish-green. I dressed, did my hair and opened the bathroom door to face Ron.
“I hope you were not peeping,” I confronted him good heartedly.
“It took a long time, I wasn’t sure whether there was another guy in there to kill you,” he said deadpan.
“Flushed him down the drain. Get used to women blocking the bath.”
“At least you got your wit back.”
While I did some inspection of my stuff and Ron had a quick shower, the Mexican TV news channel showed the hotel, the broken window and a white sheet over the piece of meat that had been my assailant.
I couldn’t understand half of it but the story was simple enough. Attacker in hotel room. American woman defended herself; assassin fell out of the window in fight. Police still investigating.
“Ever been in the news before?” Ron was drying his hair, very sexy look. Unfortunately, he was dressed completely again.
“Hope they didn’t mention my name,” I said dryly, switching off the set and tying my sneakers.
“I called Lobos while you were in the bathroom. He will meet us for breakfast downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Breakfast sounds good,” I conceded.
We rode down in the elevator, both uncomfortable with our feelings after my attempt last night.
The breakfast room was empty. The clock showed ten o’clock and the business people were already gone. Some idle tourists, mostly American by clothing, were reading USA Today, sipping juice and shoveling eggs. That is exactly what I did.
“What became of that health conscious girl I came to know in California?” Ron said reproachfully, glancing at the assortment of pure unhealthy fat on my plate.
“Stepping out on a tenth floor ledge, chased by a madman repositions your approach toward healthy food,” I said, ignoring him otherwise.
After I filled my stomach with four helpings of everything and at least a gallon of excellent Mexican coffee, I sat back and watched Ron watching me.
Lobos finally arrived. His brimming good-humored self gave me a peck on my outstretched hand. He sat down and more coffee appeared like magic a moment later. “My dear, how do you feel this morning?” He asked.
“Stop mothering me, you… father figures,” I smiled weakly. “I am well, as well as I can be.”
“Let me compliment you again on your fast reaction. That sap on the head would have killed you for sure,” Lobos patted my hand.
“It was largely luck and speed. Who is the man?” I asked.
“Who was the man?” Lobos corrected me. “In a way, you made my job a lot easier. Just yesterday, we were asking ourselves who of the curators might have traded the Maximilian Jewels. And right this morning, the puzzle is solved.”
“You mean my assassin was one of the museum curators?” I asked disbelieving.
Lobos nodded gravely. “That was my reaction exactly, and I have seen a lot of strange cases in my time.” Lobos flipped open a slim file folder that showed a blown up driver’s license photo. “Stephano Toledo. Art degree, specialized in Jewelry and Gemstones, studied in Mexico City and Florence, Italy. He was 36 years old, not married and no girlfriend.”
A regular face with Hispanic features, dark hair, dark eyes. Not evil, not particularly handsome, a regular guy.
“Was he was known to be violent in any way before last night?” Ron asked.
“No, nothing. Though, he had a bit of a flamboyant lifestyle. Liked to visit the clubs of Mexico City, had a small fast car. He spread his income thin.”
“Academic gone criminal,” Ron mused.
I almost replied that there was nothing to be said against a little theft, but then I recalled last night and stayed mum.
“Did you find anything that connects him to our San Diego case?” Ron asked.
“Give us a little time, please. This is Mexico City, my dear friend,” he admitted.
“Why did he target me? I am just the consultant.”
“That is another very good question. Presently, we can merely speculate.”
“Humor me,” I said dryly.
“Who brought up the Maximilian connection?” Lobos put his fingers on the table, spreading them.
“I see,” I said slowly but actually, I didn’t.
Ron said, “I must admit, I wasn’t very discreet about your input into the case. Mentioned it to Altward, mentioned it to his associate Mr. Cornelius on the phone. The guy at UCLA, of course, remembered you, Professor Salanca.” Ron looked a little uncomfortable, let him burn.
“But my reasoning wasn’t rocket science. And we haven’t really found out anything regarding the murder.”
Lobos took my left hand and said. “Remember that we are talking about a lot of money. Some people are desperate against anyone who threatens to unravel their plot. You picked up the thread. Maybe someone is afraid that you will start pulling some more.”
Ron took my other hand. I looked back and forth between my two personal policemen. “At least, and that is really the only thing that came out of this sorry affair, everyone is convinced of the fact that the key to the story actually is the Maximilian Jewels.”
Both nodded, glumly.
“Do you think that someone will try again?”
Lobos and Ron looked at each other and started simultaneously patting my hands. I had to laugh.
“I think our friend Ron McCloseky will arrange for protection for you in Los Angeles,” Lobos reassured me.
I pulled away my hands and crossed my arms. “I will not be nannied!”
“Will,” Ron disag
reed.
“Will not! And that is the last I will hear about it!” I stomped my foot on the floor to make the point.
“Oh well! There is another thing that you may not be aware of,” Ron slowly moved his index finger in a circle, aiming in on me. “There is someone at this table who may have the solution to the puzzle already in his, or her, head. And I think that this somebody is… ” Pointing his finger at me.
I wasn’t sure at all how Ron meant all that, whether he thought that I intentionally held back information, or whether it was my expertise ready to be exploited. Whatever. It looked as if the world relied on Calendar Moonstone—Supergirl.
My admirers beamed at me expectantly.
I re-crossed my arms, crossed my legs and wiggled my nose. “All that pressure!”
Around noon, we went over to the museum again, including Fowler, who had turned up again, jumbled some “how are’yas” and left it at that. Even Lobos joined us for the second little chat with the director. Pedro Vasolar didn’t look very pleased this morning; overnight, his olive skin had turned white.
“I cannot tell you how shocked I am by the whole affair.”
Ron and Lobos looked at him as if he was suspect number one. “Did you have any indications that your curator Stephano Toledo was involved in any illegal activities?” Lobos jumped right at it. When on the job, he had the same annoying habit as Ron in addressing things directly.
“Of course not! He was a talented young man, had a great gift in organizing exhibitions. Remember the ‘Children of the Revolution’ event last fall?” Lobos hadn’t, held his impassive stare. Vasolar started to sweat, loosened his tie. This was actually fun, I thought.
“Not? Fine. That was Senor Toledo’s success. It is unbelievable that he actually… ” His voice trailed, averting his eyes from mine.
Silence.
“The bad part, the very inconvenient part on our side appears to be… ” Lobos merely raised an eyebrow. “… that I personally ordered Senor Toledo to do the inventory of the jewelry vaults. Your request, you remember yesterday?” His voice trailed again, he probably knew that his last remark was close to ridiculous and that he talked too much.
Ron helped out in a friendly tone. “But you couldn’t have guessed… ”
“Yes, exactly, thank you,” Pedro swallowed. “My colleagues started over this morning. But the Maximilian Jewels cannot be found.” He swallowed again, avoiding Fowler’s death ray looks. “Stolen,” he repeated as if to get absolution by that fact.
Chapter 34
SINCE HIS FLIGHT back was also going through L.A., Ron and I shared a taxi to the airport. Fowler had to stay and investigate the mess further; he didn’t look pleased and I had to suppress my glee. The insurance had to pay up for employee theft, too. And no one could foresee what else might have also been peddled.
While I was settling into my business class seat with Ron eighteen rows toward the back, I noticed the headline of the newspaper that the businessman beside me was reading. It was a large paper, probably the equivalent of the Evening News. Even with my limited Spanish, I could understand ‘Mex Max stolen.’ I ripped the paper out of the hands of my surprised neighbor and started reading but couldn’t get the gist of the story. The photo showed the broken window of my former hotel room, the covered body of Senor Toledo and a drawing of one of the Maximilian Set items, straight from the Chicago appraisers.
Dying to get the gist of the story, I put the paper back into the hand of the still protesting businessman, undid three buttons of my shirt and asked him to translate it
“Please!” I said to move his eyes from my breasts to the paper. And buttoned two buttons back up.
He looked at me as if United had put him into alien class. Then to the paper. “This story? Mex Max stolen. National heritage removed from History Museum. Spectacular death of curator.” My new friend worked himself through four pages and three bylines wrapping up with the probable theft of the Maximilian Jewels by a museum curator. The theft was connected to the terrible death of the young curator, a fall from the tenth floor. There was no mention of my name, just ‘an American policewoman.’ Fair enough. One of the bylines described the ‘heritage of the Maximilian Jewels. That part was poorly written, badly researched, a rehash of the information from the Chicago experts. The minister of culture was involved. Consequences to the state of security in M.C. museums, yadda, yadda.
After my friend finished with the translation, I forcefully got his paper back into my possession. After a moment, he got himself another paper, this time, prudently, a business journal.
Just seconds after the ‘Fasten Seat Bell’ sign had been switched off; Ron was making his way toward my seat. Another stewardess tried to stop him, after all, coach was coach and business was business, but a flash of the magic shield managed to bring him through to me. He crouched near my seat and urgently showed me the papers.
“They found out!” He exclaimed in a hushed voice.
“Yes, I know,” I said, pointing at my copy.
“How did they?” Ron asked.
“Shouldn’t I be the one who asks this type of question? They are reporters; it is their job to find out. It was a public death, a public employee and a public item that was stolen. Did you hear me saying private anywhere?”
“But the information from the Chicago appraisers?”
“Either the police found a copy at Toledo’s apartment or they asked the insurance company or maybe they asked the valuator directly. Come on, who is the detective here?”
“I wonder if the other papers already know?” Ron mused.
“No,” I said. “Not likely.”
Ron looked at me, at the single newspaper in the seat pocket, then around and at me again. His eyes grew into small slits. “How do you know? Do you mean somebody leaked the story to this paper only?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I did.”
Chapter 35
THE TROLLEY WITH the diner shooed Ron away and the next opening came about an hour later when we all found ourselves in the queue to the restroom.
“Explanation please,” he stomped his foot on the cabin floor.
I smiled innocently. “Come on, we all want something to happen on this case, right?” Ron nodded suspiciously. “What is better than to heat up the stove to increase the pressure on whoever has the jewels? So far, the whole affair has taken place mostly in hiding. Let’s get a move on and move it out into the open.” Good tagline.
“This had been a Team Moonstone decision?” He said flatly.
“Well, the next time you are the target of a killing madman, feel free to take the initiative yourself. The best thing from my perspective is that you can’t undo it.” We stood eye-to-eye. “Think it through on the flight.”
It was my turn to enter the restroom and I left him standing there.
Although the rest of the flight was relatively uneventful, we had a two-hour delay and then Ron had problems getting his rental. It was almost two a.m. when we finally crashed at my place. I simply went to the cabinet, fetched blankets and cushions, threw them down to him from the gallery, and fell into my bed without brushing my teeth or changing.
So this is how it feels to grow old—I didn’t even think about sex with Ron—not for one second.
We overslept, whatever there was to oversleep. Ron was lying on the couch, wrapped and entangled in several sheets, snoring away. Coffee to get started, hot shower and fresh clothes. We walked to the Petit Casino to catch a late breakfast, not talking much.
We sat on the white plastic chairs out front and did some intensive people watching while we ate. I had taken along my big sunglasses and put them on, not to defeat the glare of the weak autumn sun but to remove myself from the world. And Ron.
Come to think of it, I had three problems. One—the ongoing curse of Thomas Cornelius and my promise toward him to find ‘The Max.’ Thomas and Billy Bounce were not interested in who killed the night watchman and Phoebe Eastman; maybe it was them anyway. The
only thing they cared about was the jewels. Problem two—the murderer or the murderers of the Eastmans, who were also probably behind the attack against me. To save myself, I had to find the murderer. Problems one and two were directly connected, I was sure of that. If I found ‘The Max,’ I would find the murderer.
Munching my lower lip and picking at a croissant didn’t reveal anything spectacular. Ron was turning the pages of his L.A. paper; the story hadn’t made it to the US print media, yet.
Problem three—five feet away from me, reading the funnies. Ron. How was I to catch the killer and find the jewels with him tagging along? ‘Honey, you stay home tonight, your partner has to break in and search the homes of several suspects.’
Problem three was standing in the way of successfully resolving problems one and two. Which meant—tackle problem three first.
I cleared my throat, “Ron?”
He looked up from his paper.
“Go home.”
“Beg your pardon?” he said.
“Didn’t you say that the solution to ‘The Max’ puzzle might be inside my pretty head?”
“Did I really say ‘pretty?’”
“You did. And it might be true.”
“You know the killer?”
“I don’t know; give this pretty head some room to think.”
After breakfast, he gave me a kiss on the cheek, got into his rental, honked, waved a tired hand and drove away to San Diego. It was hard to see and feel what went on in his head right now. Was he worried about me? He hadn’t really shown concern. Was he counting on unconventional Calendar activities? Maybe. Did he like me at all?
