The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  Addison slid farther down his car. I thought he might fall to the ground.

  “Robert was obviously about to remove the triggering springs from the Maiden, but I scared him off,” he said. “So you see, Mr. West, the mayor’s death was an accident, but it was my fault.”

  The museum director began to sob. “It was all my fault,” he whimpered. “Do you think they’ll send me to prison?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “The mayor was killed intentionally. The murder weapon used on Nina Tate was the Scavenger’s Daughter. Whoever tortured her to death also shoved the mayor inside the Iron Maiden and set it off. The same person also killed Dr. Lindblatt, and, I’m guessing, Tiffany Samples.”

  Addison blinked several times.

  “There’s a medieval torture freak hunting down San Diego’s elite,” I said. “And I think that freak is Robert Graywalls.”

  “You mean, I’m not to blame?” Addison said, standing taller.

  “You had nothing to do with it. Mayor Stanton was going to die that night one way or another. If it wasn’t in the Iron Maiden, it would have been in one of those other contraptions.”

  Addison sighed. He suddenly looked a thousand pounds lighter. Then his brow furrowed.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “The killer can’t be Robert,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “He wasn’t at the gala.”

  “He slipped in without you noticing him.”

  “No,” he said. “After he fled, I ordered security to bar him from the building. I doubt he would have ever shown his face here again, anyway.”

  “But it has to be Graywalls,” I said. “Professor Lange confirms that the Scavenger’s Daughter killed Nina Tate.”

  “I would never dispute anything Bill Lange asserted,” Addison said. “He’s the authority in this field. If he says a Scavenger’s Daughter killed Ms. Tate, it has to be true.”

  “A Scavenger’s Daughter?”

  “That’s right, a Scavenger’s Daughter,” he said. “Just not the one from this museum. The one Robert stole was missing its latches. It was extremely rusted. We had to handle it very gingerly, for fear that it might crumble apart. It couldn’t torture a mosquito, let alone a grown woman.”

  Suddenly, there was a gigantic hole in my story. But I still suspected Graywalls was the killer. Who was to say that the collector of medieval instruments of torture didn’t own a second Scavenger’s Daughter?

  “Where can I find Graywalls?” I said.

  “He lives at the El Cortez,” Addison said.

  He slumped again against his car.

  “This is all going to come out now, isn’t it?” he said softly.

  I nodded.

  “Oh, no,” he moaned, sliding all the way to the ground, “this will be the end of me.”

  CHAPTER 36

  I drove to the El Cortez, a historic residential tower perched atop a steep hill downtown. The stately Spanish Renaissance Revival building opened as a hotel in 1927 before later converting to luxury condos.

  Units sold for upwards of $2 million. I guess Graywalls made a decent living from stolen art.

  I parked on Seventh Avenue and climbed the hill to the seventeen-story tower. The iconic red neon rooftop EL CORTEZ sign flashed overhead at planes headed for the airport.

  At the entrance, a directory near the intercom listed the residents. I found Graywalls’ name. He lived in 1503. I pressed the button.

  No answer.

  I rang the buzzer for unit 1504, Graywalls’ neighbor. The name was Spencer.

  The intercom crackled. “Yes?”

  It sounded like an elderly woman.

  “Mrs. Spencer, sorry to bother you,” I said into the intercom. “I’m from the museum, ma’am. I’ve got a package for Mr. Graywalls. Do you happen to know when he’ll be back?”

  “Not until Sunday night, dear,” she said. “He’s in Los Angeles for the weekend.”

  “Are you sure? I thought I saw his white van in the garage,” I said, bluffing.

  “Oh, no, dear, you must be mistaken. Robert drives a black Acura.”

  That didn’t put me off. If Graywalls was the killer, he’d keep his snatch van hidden.

  It was Friday night. Graywalls wasn’t due back in town for forty-eight hours. I’d have to wait.

  But I had to keep juggling. There were other balls in the air. I couldn’t drop them.

  CHAPTER 37

  I drove home and fed the pets, then I raced to Jordan’s.

  We had a date. No way I’d break it. Jordan could never again think I’d make her second priority to a story—no matter how sensational.

  When Jordan answered her door, she was still dressed in her work clothes. She wasn’t smiling.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  Jordan stood in the doorway. She didn’t invite me in.

  I looked over her shoulder. Heather sat at the dining room table. Lisa, the nanny, served her dinner.

  Heather gave me a little wave. I smiled and waved back.

  I looked at Jordan.

  “I’m sorry, Ty, I thought I could do this, but—”

  “You can,” I said, “you can do this.”

  “I can’t.”

  I tried to sound lighthearted. “Come on, Jordan. You’ve got the sitter, and I’ve got the canoe.”

  Jordan gazed to the street. My twelve-foot canoe was lashed to my convertible, the bow wedged between the seats.

  Jordan hinted at a smile, but shook her head. “We’ve already capsized once.”

  “So we’ll paddle nice and slow this time,” I said.

  “No, Ty. Too much water.”

  Jordan slowly closed the door on me.

  My mind reeled. What just happened?

  I sat in my car, the canoe jutting out the back.

  Heather appeared at the front window. I saw her mouth, “Mommy?”

  I’m sure I looked pathetic. I turned away.

  A few minutes later, I heard footsteps.

  “Permission to come aboard?”

  I looked up. Jordan now wore casual clothes and a smile.

  I beamed.

  We drove west down Harbor Drive. On our left, the Lord Hornblower, a 151-foot yacht, motored along San Diego Bay on its nightly dinner cruise.

  Jordan looked so good I forgot about the scoop that might revive my career.

  I parked at the end of a road in the La Playa neighborhood of Point Loma, near a stretch of sand on the bay.

  I hoisted a backpack, and Jordan helped me carry the canoe to the water.

  “No second paddle?” she said.

  “We can take turns,” I said. “Besides, extra paddles clutter the dance floor.”

  Jordan gave me a puzzled look, but I could tell she enjoyed the mystery.

  I paddled us across the water toward Shelter Island, a man-made peninsula that’s home to several marinas, hotels and restaurants.

  After clearing the slips of the San Diego Yacht Club, winner of the America’s Cup, the bright lights of Humphrey’s By the Bay were in view. Humphrey’s is a waterfront concert venue on Shelter Island. The outdoor theater was jumping with a raucous crowd. Los Gatos, a hot new Latino rock group that had been playing weddings in the San Diego barrio a year before, were ending a triumphant U.S. tour with a sold-out concert in their hometown.

  Jordan smiled her approval.

  I tied the canoe to a buoy. A full moon was on the rise. Los Gatos struck the festive first chords of “Amor Loco,” their new hit single. We had a clear view of the stage.

  “Best seats in the house,” I said.

  I unzipped my pack and removed fresh prawns and crab, crackers, lemons and cocktail sauce. I pulled out the battery-powered blender and the ingredients for margaritas.

  “You’re just full of surprises,” Jordan said.

  As we sipped our margaritas and listened to the music, I recalled a date with Jordan, years ago in Washington, D.C.

  We had rented a pad
dleboat from the boathouse at the Tidal Basin. We took the boat across the water to see the Jefferson Memorial. It was the first week of April, and the Japanese cherry blossom trees lining the bank were in bloom. The white flowering trees reflected magically on the water.

  I’ll never forget that day. After we had returned the boat, we went to Jordan’s place and made love for the first time.

  As we enjoyed the concert, I wondered if Jordan ever thought of that day. I wondered if she was thinking of it now.

  Los Gatos tore through a succession of rockers, then slowed it down with a ballad.

  I stood in the canoe. I reached down for Jordan’s hand and pulled her to her feet. I put my arm around her waist and drew her close. We swayed with the music.

  “See?” I said. “I told you this boat had a dance floor.”

  She rested her head against my chest. She had to hear my pounding heart. I buried my face in her beautiful, windblown hair and inhaled deeply.

  I leaned back and cupped her face in my hands. Our eyes met. I kissed her for the first time in twelve years. I kissed her mouth, her eyelids, her forehead, the hollow of her neck. I wondered how I ever thought I could live without her.

  Jordan clung to me. It was as if we couldn’t hold each other tight enough. Our hands moved all over each other. We couldn’t stop.

  The canoe began to rock, gently at first, but then it rolled from side to side. I thought we might fall overboard. I didn’t care.

  We were lost in each other. The music of Los Gatos was our personal soundtrack. Nobody else was there.

  Or so I thought.

  When the ballad ended, I heard Los Gatos’ lead singer, Luis Delgado. “We’re gonna leave you with one last song,” he said. “And we’d like to dedicate it to the couple making out in the boat.”

  I looked up and saw Delgado pointing the neck of his guitar in our direction. About fifteen hundred pairs of eyes followed it.

  “The name of the song is ‘Obtene un Cuarto’,” he said. “For all you gringos, that means, ‘Get a Room.’”

  The audience roared.

  I paddled us back across the water to the car.

  Then Jordan and I took Luis Delgado’s advice.

  CHAPTER 38

  San Diego enjoyed a quiet weekend. No new murders. Was it just a coincidence that Robert Graywalls was out of town?

  The wait for his return was agonizing. Fortunately, I had good company to distract me.

  I had Jordan and Heather over to my place for Sunday lunch. Jared also joined us while his foster parents, the Washingtons, attended a wedding.

  I gave the girls the tour of the cob house.

  “It’s like the clay pot I made for Mommy in school,” Heather said.

  “Pretty much, only you don’t need to stick it in an oven afterwards,” I said. “The sun dries it for you.”

  “It’s totally you,” Jordan said, surveying my mud dwelling.

  “It’s home,” I said. “But it’s a little cramped. I’m thinking of adding on.”

  “Will that be hard?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “There’s no wood, no nails, no tools. It works like a grape crush. You put some mud, straw and water on a tarp, and you dance around in it barefoot. Then you sculpt the addition by hand, just like Heather’s pot.”

  “Oooo, can I help?” Heather said.

  “Sure,” I said, “if you don’t mind getting your feet muddy.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said.

  Heather and Jared played with Maya and Torpedo while I grilled swordfish and burgers on the barbecue. I told Jordan to sit and relax, but she insisted on setting the table.

  We ate on the patio, overlooking the ocean. A warm breeze rustled the palm fronds.

  I had the CD player on shuffle mode. When a song by Los Gatos came on, Jordan flashed me a knowing smile.

  Our lovemaking after the concert had been urgent and passionate. Then I had to get Jordan home so she could relieve Lisa, the nanny. I hoped it wouldn’t be long before Jordan and I could wake up together in the same bed.

  I looked at my little mud hut. There was no reason I couldn’t turn it into a rambling mud hacienda.

  Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, but what was the harm in dreaming?

  After lunch, Jared and I cleared the table and did the dishes. I washed and Jared dried.

  Jordan and Heather lounged in the colorful Mayan hammock. Heather read aloud from Island of the Blue Dolphins.

  When we’d finished in the kitchen, Jared and I chipped golf balls in the banana grove. We had a contest to see who could land the most balls on top of a banana plant fifteen yards away. After five tries, Jared had landed three, while I was yet to stick one.

  “Mind if I try?”

  I turned around. Jordan pretended to spit in her hands and rub them together.

  “This ought to be interesting,” I said, handing her my lob wedge.

  Jordan hated golf. When we dated in Washington, I could never get her to play after I took up the game again. “A good walk spoiled,” she called it, quoting Mark Twain.

  She dropped a ball in the banana grove. She gripped down a few inches on the shaft and opened up the face of the club, adding more loft. She made a full swing, sliding the club head neatly under the ball.

  I gaped as the ball shot almost straight up in the air. Jordan had executed the tricky flop shot, the greenside shot made famous by Phil Mickelson. The ball fell gently from the sky, as if slowed by a parachute. It landed softly on a banana leaf and stopped.

  “Whoa!” Jared said. “Hey, Ty, how come you can’t do that?”

  My jaw nearly touched the ground.

  “I started taking lessons when you left for Bosnia,” Jordan said. “I wanted to surprise you when you returned.”

  Jordan handed me back my club. “I’m a scratch golfer, Ty,” she said, using the term for a player with a zero handicap. “I may have to give you strokes.”

  Amazing. My dream woman was now perfect.

  I gathered the balls in a shag bag, and we walked back to the house.

  “Who wants ice cream?” I said.

  “Me! Me!” Heather said.

  “Okay,” I said, “but you’ve got to help me make it.”

  I got the homemade ice cream maker out. Making ice cream is a hobby of mine. I specialize in funky organic flavors: lavender, rosemary, fennel. I like to experiment.

  “Hmm, let’s see,” I said. “I think we’ll try something new today. I hope you like jalapeño.”

  “Oooo, yuck,” Heather said.

  “Heather, honey, Ty is just teasing,” Jordan said.

  “Nope,” I said. “And you know what, Heather? You’re going to love this jalapeño ice cream so much, you’ll want seconds.”

  Heather helped me measure the cream and sugar. She looked on aghast as I chopped up a dark green pepper and threw it into the mixing bowl. I tossed in some mangoes and bananas to sweeten the flavor.

  I flipped the switch on the electric Cuisinart ice cream maker. Heather watched skeptically as the concoction thickened.

  I had some Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer in case anybody found the jalapeño recipe inedible.

  Heather took a tentative bite, then raised her eyes in wonder. As I predicted, she asked for a second bowl.

  The four of us dragged Mexican barrel chairs to the edge of the bluff and watched the sun set over the ocean. It was an exceptionally clear evening.

  There was a sudden burst of green light across the water. It lasted for only a second.

  Heather squealed with glee.

  “Awesome!” Jared said.

  “Did you see that?” Jordan said.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was the Green Flash.”

  I hadn’t seen one in years. The rare phenomenon occurs on cloudless nights. The sun suddenly turns emerald as the very top of the disk disappears. It’s caused by refraction. The bending green light rays are the last to be seen when the sun sinks below the horizon.

  The wri
ter Jules Verne called the Green Flash “the true green of hope.”

  I smiled at Jordan, my heart full of hope.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sunday night I drove to the El Cortez.

  When a Saab pulled out from the underground garage, I drove in before the security gate closed. Why people think these slow-moving gates offer them security is beyond me.

  I didn’t see any Acuras. Robert Graywalls was still in L.A.

  He was the second source I desperately needed for my torture slayer story—or he was the killer.

  Either way, I had to get to him before the police. Detective Walton may be thickheaded, but he’s not dumb. If he hadn’t already, he’d soon link the deaths of the mayor, Nina Tate and Dr. Lindblatt. Especially now that Tiffany Samples was missing.

  I parked in a dark corner of the garage and ate a turkey sandwich.

  Over the next six hours, a dozen cars came in. None of them Acuras.

  Around midnight, I wondered whether Graywalls was coming home.

  I decided to leave. But I was locked in the garage. A car hadn’t pulled in for the past hour.

  When I heard the security gate rolling open, I started my car. A black Infiniti came down the ramp, and I drove toward the exit.

  I braked at the top of the ramp. Maybe Mrs. Spencer, Graywalls’ neighbor, had confused an Infiniti for an Acura.

  I risked getting locked in the garage overnight to find out.

  I backed down the ramp and parked as the security gate closed.

  The Infiniti pulled into a space near a concrete pillar. A man stepped out. He was alone. I guessed he was in his thirties. He was tall, over six feet, and fit. He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans.

  I got out of my car.

  “Robert,” I called. It wasn’t a question.

  The man didn’t look up.

  “Robert?”

  He turned around. “No,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  I started to climb back in my car, then stopped. The man lifted a suitcase from the trunk.

  He wheeled the suitcase across the garage floor toward the elevator. I waited until he passed me.

  “Steal any medieval instruments of torture lately?” I said.