“I didn’t know they had machine-milled spikes in the Dark Ages,” came a voice from the crowd. I turned and saw that it belonged to Dick Cameron.
“I beg your pardon?” Addison said.
“The spikes,” the reality TV producer said. “I can tell from here that they’re not hand-made. This thing couldn’t have been used during the Inquisition.”
“No, you’re quite right,” the director said. “The original Iron Maiden was destroyed in World War II during an air raid on Nuremberg. This is a replica. I’m sorry, did I not mention that?”
“No, you didn’t,” Cameron said, holding the director’s gaze.
“Well, I can assure you that it’s as faithful a replica as can be found,” Addison said.
“Can we see it work?” a woman asked.
Chuckles spread through the room. Addison smiled, no doubt relieved to be off the subject of authenticity.
“Regrettably, no,” he said. “Her triggering springs have been removed. The insurance company insisted on it. Liability reasons. I’m afraid you’ll have to imagine her lethal capabilities.”
Several guests wandered off, others began to chat.
“I will tell you this, though,” Addison quickly added. “If I were to re-engage the Maiden’s triggering device and touch these buttons, scores of thrusting knives and spikes would pierce the most sensitive parts of her victim’s body. His eyes, his bladder, his navel, his buttocks, and, yes, even his testicles, would all be penetrated.”
Mayor Stanton grimaced comically at Addison’s vivid description. The ice cubes in his whisky glass rattled as he walked up to the Iron Maiden. He tried to place his arm around her waist, but it only reached part way.
“She reminds me of my ex-wife,” he said. “Now there was a real ball buster.”
There was nervous laughter and snickering.
Stanton’s aide, Ken Dowling, swooped in. He grabbed the cocktail glass from the mayor and sternly whispered in his ear. Stanton was a drunk. He’d probably sink his own political career before I ever could.
Dowling shot me a look when he saw me jotting the quote in my notebook. He had nothing to fear. Stanton’s pal Rampling—or one of her stooges on the copy desk—would excise the offensive comment from my story.
After I gathered enough material, I hung back at the edge of the party while Mel finished shooting pictures.
I loosened my bow tie and ordered a San Peligrino from the bartender, then plucked the last canapé off a tray carried by a waiter who wore a black leather executioner’s mask.
CHAPTER 8
At midnight, a hundred or so guests remained at the gala.
Dr. Aaron Lindblatt had re-cornered Tiffany Samples. His tag team partner was Ken Dowling, the mayor’s aide. They chatted to the former Penthouse Pet while leering at her ample chest. Dowling glanced up from her breasts and saw me watching him.
“Busted,” I mouthed to him, then laughed. He looked away, pretending not to see me.
Lindblatt merrily conversed with the HomeMart heiress’ chest, oblivious to his own date. The young, shapely blond was gorgeous, but no Penthouse Pet. Apparently feeling overmatched, she’d slinked off to wherever beauty pageant runners up slink off to.
I had an hour until deadline. While Mel packed up her camera gear, I asked Addison a couple more questions. Don had said to stick with basics, but even society page readers deserve more.
“What’s with this?” I said, pointing to an empty display case.
“That’s reserved for a piece that has yet to arrive,” Addison said.
“Which one?”
Addison hesitated. “The Scavenger’s Daughter,” he finally said. “It’s on loan from a European museum, but I’m afraid it got hung up in Customs.”
“The Scavenger’s Daughter,” I said. “I’m guessing she’s not a very nice lady.”
“To say the least,” he said. “She is one of the most wicked instruments of torture ever contrived, yet utterly simplistic in her design. Her great appeal was her portability. She really got around, so to speak.”
Addison tittered at his own joke. I had touched the egghead in him.
“The name is actually a corruption of the Skevington’s Daughter,” he continued. “Sir Leonard Skevington invented the device in the sixteenth century, when he served as Lieutenant of the Tower of London, during the reign of Henry VIII.
“The victim’s neck, hands and feet were immobilized by three connected iron hoops. In effect, the poor soul would be compressed into the shape of a ball. Within hours, violent cramps would ensue, first in the abdomen, then the rectum. Bleeding would commence from the nose and ears. Ultimately, blood would gush from the ends of the hands and feet.”
Addison smiled, evidently pleased by his command of the subject.
“Strange,” I said, “that out of all these pieces in the exhibit, only this one got stopped in Customs.”
The satisfied look vanished from his face.
“Really, Mr. West!” he stammered. “Must you look for a conspiracy in every—”
A shrill scream pierced the museum.
I looked up and saw Dr. Lindblatt’s eyes jerk away from Tiffany Samples’ chest.
“Ashley!” he yelled. The champagne glass fell from his hand, shattering on the floor. He sprinted down the giant hall in the direction of the scream.
Addison and I rushed behind, following the doctor into the annex gallery.
Lindblatt’s date stood trembling before the Iron Maiden. She caught her breath and screamed again, hands held to her mouth.
“It’s bleeding!” she cried. “It’s bleeding!”
I stared at the huge female-shaped contraption from head to toe. A red, thick fluid seeped from the base of the hollow statue and spilled onto the wooden pedestal. Other guests pressed in close and gasped. Lindblatt’s date kept shrieking.
A uniformed security guard dashed into the room and ordered everybody back. He inserted his fingers into the gap where the two doors of the Iron Maiden met and tried to pry them open. He struggled and groaned, but couldn’t budge them.
Reggie Wilkinson pushed his way through the crowd. “Here, brother, let me give you a hand,” he said.
The security guard made room for the football great, and at last the two men flung open the front of the hulking, metal creature.
“Sweet Jesus!” the security guard said, lurching back.
“Nah, man, nah,” Wilkinson said, “this is some fucked up shit.”
“It’s, it’s, it’s,” Lindblatt’s date began, then fainted and collapsed into the doctor’s arms.
I no longer had to worry about how I would nail Mayor James Stanton. The Iron Maiden had beaten me to it.
CHAPTER 9
I questioned the stunned guests while Mel took photos of the mayor in the cruel embrace of the Iron Maiden. I urged her to also shoot some pictures from more discreet angles.
“Remember the Wheaties test,” I said.
The Wheaties test is the standard editors use to pick photos. If a picture is likely to make Mom, Dad or Little Johnny blow their Wheaties at the breakfast table, it doesn’t run.
The problem was, there weren’t any photos of the mayor in his current condition that would pass the Wheaties test.
Dr. Lindblatt felt for a pulse on a part of the mayor’s body that hadn’t been impaled. He confirmed the obvious with a shake of his head.
“Well, don’t just leave him hanging there,” said a woman I didn’t recognize.
“We have to,” Lindblatt said. “The body can’t be moved until the police arrive.”
The security guard returned to the room carrying a white canvas drop cloth. He and Lindblatt draped the cloth over the Iron Maiden, hiding the mayor’s mutilated corpse.
Lindblatt’s date came to in time to see blood soak through the material. The ventilation system kicked in and billowed the drop cloth, making it look like something underneath was moving. Lindblatt’s date fainted again. Only this time the doctor wasn’t
there to catch her, and she fell to the floor with a thud. My quote from the only potential eyewitness had to wait.
I called Don at home, waking him.
“I’m taking over the obituary beat a few days early,” I said.
“West?” Don said groggily. “What the—”
“The mayor just hugged an old woman’s knife collection. Tell the desk to hold the front page for the final edition.”
I hung up before Don could reply.
Addison stared at the draped Iron Maiden and body. He hugged himself, as if to keep his own guts from spilling out, and rocked from foot to foot.
“Dreadful,” the museum director gasped.
“How could this have happened?” I said, flipping open my notebook.
“He was drunk,” he said. “You saw him. I—I suppose he stepped inside the Maiden. And—and—when he closed the front doors, the knives and spikes thrust into him.”
Stanton was sufficiently drunk to think a game of medieval hide and seek might be fun. But the rest of Addison’s theory was bunk.
“When he closed the front doors?” I said, incredulously. “It took two brawny men to lift those iron doors open.”
Addison ran a trembling hand through his hair.
“Well, I suppose he could have inadvertently touched the button in the Maiden’s right eye as he entered her, and the doors slammed shut behind him.”
I could picture the tipsy mayor stumbling toward the entrance to the iron beast, losing his balance and reaching up for her head to brace himself, triggering his demise. It made sense. Up to a point.
“But you said the killing mechanism was disengaged.”
“Yes, yes, of course, it was,” he said. “I removed the springs myself, just this afternoon.” He paused. “I, what I mean to say is, I—. Look, Mr. West, someone from the museum must have replaced the springs. It’s the only logical explanation.”
“But who?” I said. “Why?”
“Any number of people. It’s been absolute chaos around here the past few days. Scores of workers have been racing the clock to get the exhibit installed before the gala. Probably some well-meaning employee happened upon the springs and put them in the Maiden, not knowing I had removed them. Just trying to be helpful, no doubt.”
I was interrupted before I could ask another question.
CHAPTER 10
“I want this room cleared immediately!” came a booming voice from behind. I didn’t need to turn around to know that Detective Darrell Walton of the San Diego Police Department had arrived. “Everybody out, now!”
Guests dutifully filed out of the gallery.
“That means you, too, West!” Walton barked. “How’d you get here so fast, anyway?”
“I’m on the fashion beat now,” I said.
Walton smirked and turned to a uniformed cop. “Officer Garcia, make sure Mr. West finds his way back to Vogue magazine.”
The cop grabbed my elbow and said, “You heard him.”
Walton was a good cop, but he had never forgiven me for my series on local corruption. I had turned up proof that his partner, Detective Danny Miller, had been running a drug operation out of the police evidence room. When the indictments were handed down, Miller ate his service revolver. He left behind a wife and four kids.
Walton accused me of fabricating the story. I think he truly believed that.
“Hey, West,” he said, as I brushed by him, “you create any widows and orphans lately?”
If he hadn’t made the fashion magazine crack, I might have let it slide.
“What’s the matter, Detective?” I said. “You wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, or did you just sleep on the floor?”
“Get him out of here!” Walton snapped.
I needed to leave soon to make deadline anyway.
I caught up with Mel near the museum exit. I looked back at the thinning crowd as I ushered her toward the door.
“Too late for TV,” I said. “The Times reporter left early. We have an exclusive.”
“You’re back on A-1,” Mel said.
Darcy McLaren rushed in. Darcy was a cub reporter at the Sun, just out of grad school. I’d mentored her in the newsroom. She was talented, but green. I was surprised Don Street had sent her as my backup.
“We’re good here, Darcy,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
“Ty, Mrs. Rampling called me,” she said. “She called me at home. I don’t understand, Ty, what’s going on?”
“You tell me, Darcy, I’m on deadline.”
“She told me to take over the story. She—she said for you to give me your notes.”
“Unbelievable,” Mel said.
I motioned for Mel to keep cool.
Darcy was near tears. “Ty, I’m so sorry. I didn’t ask for this.”
I handed Darcy my notebook. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just do your best.”
CHAPTER 11
I was startled awake Saturday morning when the cat jumped from the dresser onto my chest. That usually means he’s hungry, but sometimes he does it for grins.
“Hey, I named you Torpedo, not Cannonball,” I said.
Maya heard my voice and stirred on the floor. She’s a brindle mutt who looks like a coyote. Four years ago, she wandered up out of a nearby canyon with no collar or tags. Torpedo dropped in a month later, also carrying no ID. I haven’t been able to get rid of them.
“Hey, Maya, how’s your tail?”
There was a thwomp thwomp thwomp, as she thumped her tail on the floor.
“How’s that tail working out for you, Maya?”
Thwomp thwomp thwomp.
It’s our only trick.
I was surprised the phone wasn’t ringing. Mayor Stanton’s demise was the biggest story to hit San Diego since the wildfires of 2007. The Sun’s skeleton weekend crew would be beefed up to cover all the follow-up stories. Even the feature writers would be rounded up to file sidebars. That the paper’s only Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter hadn’t been called in meant Rampling planned to make me quit.
I stepped into a pair of Teva sandals and walked outside in my boxers to retrieve the morning papers. I found the Times near the door, but I had to get down on my hands and knees to reach the Sun under my car. Even the paperboy was punishing me.
A south swell was rolling, and surfers enjoyed waves that curled like glass barrels.
I picked a banana and fired up the blender for my morning smoothie.
I read the papers on the patio. The sun had burned off the coastal fog, leaving another Mediterranean-like day. I hated that I’d soon be the new weatherman, but it’s hard to feel miserable in a place where each day starts with a slathering of SPF 30 sunscreen.
Darcy McLaren had made deadline for the final edition. Her story ran above the fold, beneath a screaming headline: MAYOR KILLED AT MUSEUM GALA: STUMBLES INTO TORTURE DEVICE. None of Mel’s photos had passed the Wheaties test. The only pictures were a file photo of Stanton and an image of the Iron Maiden reprinted from the exhibit guide.
Darcy’s piece noted that Stanton’s was the most bizarre political death since R. Budd Dwyer, the Pennsylvania State Treasurer, shot himself in the head before TV cameras in 1987. The difference was that Dwyer’s death was a suicide and Stanton’s was an apparent accident.
There was nothing in the Times about the tragedy. They’d missed the story and now had to play catch up.
I had to play catch up, too.
I loaded Maya into the back seat of my convertible, spreading out a beach towel for her. She pawed it aside, preferring to rest her nails on the leather.
We drove to Southeast San Diego to pick up Jared, then doubled back to Ocean Beach, better known as OB, a funky coastal enclave of surf shops, antiques stores and dive bars north of Point Loma. It’s a place where tattooed urchins and tanned retirees stand side by side, grooving on the sight of outrageous sunsets and tasty waves. OB also claims a stretch of sand called Dog Beach, where dogs are allowed to run free.
Jared an
d I waded into the shallow surf and took turns throwing a tennis ball for Maya, who wouldn’t quit until she was so tired we had to lift her into the car. We hosed her off at the Dog Beach Dog Wash. I worked the nozzle and Jared applied the shampoo. When he had Maya in a thick lather, he stepped back and smiled mischievously.
“What?” I said.
“Maya,” he said, “how’s your tail?”
Maya wagged her tail, spraying suds all over me. Jared busted up laughing.
“I’ve got to teach her a new trick,” I said.
“Nah, this trick is the bomb,” Jared said. “Maybe Letterman will let you bring her on for Stupid Pet Tricks.”
We stopped at Rubios for fish tacos. They taste a lot better than they sound. The guacamole enhances the flavor of the battered cod, but it’s the secret spicy yogurt sauce that pulls it all together.
Jared asked if I’d give him a putting lesson. We drove back to my place and headed for the synthetic putting green I installed behind the house. I watched him roll a few before I detected a hitch in his stroke.
“Keep it smooth and rhythmic, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock,” I said. “That straight back and forth motion will make the ball roll on a truer path.”
Jared has an abundance of natural ability, but he’s also a keen student, very coachable. In no time, he was banging in twelve footers as if the hole were the size of a basketball hoop.
“I think I got it now,” he said, beaming his infectious grin.
“Good,” I said, “because now it’s time for your math lesson.”
“Awww.”
“Come on, Jared, you know the drill. For each hour of golf practice, we do an hour of school work.”
“Okay, but I don’t see what’s so important about math.”
“Hey, Tiger Woods was a straight-A student,” I said. “How do you think he’s able to count all that money he makes?”
We sat at the Mexican tile picnic table beneath the palapa. The surf pounded against the sandstone below. Surfers bobbed on their boards in the distance, waiting for the perfect wave. Maya dried herself in the sun. Torpedo stayed on the terra cotta patio, rolling near the outdoor fireplace I light on evenings I sit and star gaze.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 3
