“They fell, both of them.”
“Did you get police reports?” Helene said.
“Both deaths were ruled accidental.”
“But you have this feeling, right?”
“More like an evil foreboding,” Giselle said. “Something to do with this old hotel, its aura—like a shadow falling across your grave.”
Helene saw movement.
Ackerman was out of the pool, being helped into his robe by a black man in a turtleneck sweater. The man wore a shoulder holster. His shaved head reflected the light. Giselle Roux identified him as Bruno Hoff.
Ackerman walked over, carrying a copy of Helene’s book.
“Miss Steinbeck, your fame precedes you. I am reading your book. It would be an honor to own your autograph.”
Up close, Axel Ackerman did not look so old, or so bony. His eyes were alive, filled with fire. The bald head was tanned and smooth and powerful. A man born to be king.
He had a beak nose and a winning smile that said he could buy and sell you before you knew what was happening. His teeth were yellow, his lips sensual.
“Is this for you?”
“Yes. To Axel, from Helene. And the date.”
Helene signed his copy of her book. Her hand was jittery. This guy wanted her, this old person, bald and grinning, wanted to fuck her. She handed the book back. He read her words, nodded, held out his hand.
“Giselle was supposed to introduce us. I’m Axel Ackerman.”
“I’m Helene Steinbeck.”
His hand was big and warm, laced with power. He did not squeeze too hard. She was shaking hands with a billion dollars. She had met millionaires before, but Ackerman was her first billionaire. His hand let her go. She felt short of breath. He asked what she thought about the contract.
“Enough money to buy you for twenty-four hours?” he said.
“What about Murdock,” Helene said. “We’re a team. Where’s his name?”
A shadow crossed Ackerman’s eyes. He told Giselle to pencil Murdock in. She used a fancy fountain pen to add Murdock’s name to the contract. Ackerman scribbled, turned to Helene.
“I heard your man was moonlighting, helping out our beleaguered hotel security boys.”
“He likes to stay busy.”
“But you did the Taos killings, right—no help from him?”
“Murdock was right there, backing me up,” Helene said.
“Let’s talk about the contract.”
“Not much to discuss,” Ackerman said. “I’m buying your combined skills—detection and protection—for twenty-four hours. I expect you to go through the motions, digging up dirt on my dead friends, but there’s nothing there. Accidents happen.”
“They both fell, right?”
“Will Tyler fell at twilight—highball time. Milt Coolidge fell because he had a trick knee. You got one drunk and one cripple, case solved.”
Giselle Roux broke in, “Did you check with Walter?”
“I knocked on the goddamn door,” Ackerman said. “No answer. Probably got a floozie in there. Or maybe two.”
“Who’s Walter?” Helene said.
“One of our investors,” Giselle said. “In the money pool. He’s staying in 900, your floor, the suite at the other end.”
“His name is Walt Findlay,” Ackerman said. “Maybe you saw him around. He’s tanned, fit, looks like a Beach Boy. Always on the prowl. His motto is love ’em and leave ’em.”
“Walter thinks like a teenager,” Giselle said. “He has three ex-wives … that we know of.”
“Let’s have breakfast,” Ackerman said. “You, me, Walt Findlay if we can rouse him, your Mr. Detective man. Eight-ish. You can guard my ancient body while in the midst of detecting, to satisfy Giselle. I’m halfway through your true-crime tome. I started at midpoint … anything in the first half?”
“The author fell in love,” Helene said.
“I love writers, the way they conjure.”
Ackerman repeated his invitation to breakfast, eight o’clock, the Bell Rock Bistro, his personal table. The wait staff would know.
Helene watched him walk off, joined by Bruno, who carried a cellphone and a white sports bag with red markings.
Giselle handed over a purple binder. A label on the cover said: POLICE REPORTS, ETC. Giselle smiled, touched Helene’s shoulder—the touch of a friend, or maybe not.
“Have fun at breakfast.”
Helene Steinbeck wanted to say no.
She wanted to back off, no way, not me, not now, no security work, no bodyguarding a randy, skinny-legged old man.
Helene was here in the Sedona area for some R&R, a quiet place that was not Taos. A place in the sun where there was safety, peace, time with Murdock, time to work on their relationship. They had been here six days. Helene was feeling better. Her feet were healing, and she could walk a whole mile without pain.
Helene was shivering. Time for a shower. Time to face Murdock. Things were edgy between them. How would Murdock react? Hey, sweetie, I found a job for you, no killing, fill up your days so I can get some work done—okay?
Chapter 3
Murdock was up, showered, wearing jeans and a khaki shirt, when Helene came back from her swim. Her face was lit with color; Murdock smelled a secret. He wanted a hug, a kiss, a sign that things were okay. She handed him a purple binder that said POLICE REPORT. She looked beautiful, determined.
He had eggs in a bowl, muffins from Red Rock Coffee, fruit from the kitchen, bacon sizzling in the pan. Helene’s camera sat on the work table, next to her laptop, her notes for the workshop, her pile of manuscript. At the bathroom door, she told him they had a breakfast date.
“Who with?”
“Giselle Roux,” she said, “and a billionaire remodeler, and someone named Findlay.”
“The bacon is half done,” he said.
“I need you on this,” she said. “And I can’t eat the bacon. Remember?”
She wore the robe into the bathroom. The door was ajar; he saw skin. The door closed, shutting Murdock out. He finished cooking the bacon, laid it out in strips on a paper towel. The shower turned off. He imagined her naked, water drops on skin. He sat at the table studying the purple binder.
Two police reports, two dead guys. William Tyler died on Fire Island when he fell off a deck. Horace Coolidge died in Palm Desert when he fell on a hiking trail. Tyler died in August, Coolidge in September. Both men were in their sixties. A computer print-out added three more names: Findlay, Delaplane, and Hawthorne—no dates of death.
Helene came out wearing the robe, running a comb through shiny black hair, holding a brown envelope. Her feet were bare, her curves shaping the robe to her naked body. Her eyes were still sad. They had not made love since Taos. The envelope contained a contract and five thousand dollars—51 hundred-dollar bills for 24 hours of security work. Two names were printed, Ackerman and Helene Steinbeck. Murdock’s name was written in longhand, an afterthought.
“What do you think?”
“Good money,” Murdock said. “Three-fifty a minute, two hundred eight an hour … and change.”
“I want us to sign it.”
“What about the book, the workshop?”
“I was hoping we could share the load … solve this thing before midnight.”
“Two accidents in two fancy places?” Murdock said.
She was standing beside him, combing her hair. He felt her body heat through the robe. Her feet still had some tan. Her knee looked smooth. He wanted to show her the photo of Cathedral Rock in the dark. Wanted to know her thoughts. Wanted them to touch, on purpose.
“Is this Ackerman guy the billionaire remodeler?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he like?”
“Very down home,” Helene said. “Mid-seventies, tough, still talks with a tiny Texas twang. He has yellow eyes.”
“Could you feel the throb of big money?”
“If you Google him while I get dressed,” Helene said, “we’ll know more.”
&nbs
p; “These two dead guys, were they bankers?”
“How did you know that?”
“Investment banking?” Murdock said. “Private equity?”
“Something to ask at breakfast,” Helene said.
She left him alone. He re-read the contract, felt the old tingle—a case to solve, a thread to follow. They had come to Sedona to escape Taos, to erase the memories of dead girls. They had come to Oak Creek Village, Sedona’s bedroom community at the edge of Highway 179, lured by an invitation from Giselle Roux. Before they arrived in the village, Helene had researched the vortices of Sedona. Tourists came from all over the world to visit their favorite vortex. The testimonials sounded religious. Swirl in a vortex and get reborn. Get recharged, re-centered, released from your earth-bound servitude.
Helene loved the pool. Murdock killed time helping out at Sedona Landing, a hotel steeped in history. Helene’s nightmares had stopped. She got busy with her new book. They had swapped serious kissing for brief hugs and the tentative pressing of cheeks. This fancy new job, security for a crazy billionaire, was one more activity to keep them in this limbo, together-apart.
Murdock ate a slice of bacon. It tasted flat, greasy, filled with unhealth. He chewed as he studied the contract, feeling the pull of big money. A gulf yawned between himself and this guy Ackerman. Murdock still needed Helene’s take on the midnight photo. He dumped the bacon into the trash.
Chapter 4
Axel Ackerman was bald and tanned, dressed like a tennis bum—a worn T-shirt, a beat-up cable knit sweater. His handshake was solid, like a straight-shooter’s. Even bent by age, the guy still stood over six feet. Murdock was impressed, his first billionaire up close. Yellow eyes, a good laugh, a winner’s smile. Ackerman introduced Bruno, a solid black dude in a white turtleneck, maybe sixty, packing a shoulder rig under a blue jacket, rolling a white canvas tennis bag, red and black stripes, with bulgy outside pockets.
Bruno welcomed Murdock aboard. His hand was warm, with that weight-room firmness that turns a fist into concrete. Bruno’s smile was weary; you could tell he needed sleep. He yawned, asked to be excused, reminded Ackerman about grease and gas, and left for his nap.
At the breakfast bar, Ackerman loaded his plate with scrambled eggs, melon, a stack of Canadian bacon. Murdock had his travel breakfast—pancakes, eggs over easy, four links of the local sausage. Helene went meatless. Murdock craved more meat—and four slices of melon.
Ackerman had his own table in the Bell Rock Bistro, the view window near the patio. He sat facing the entrance, like a gunfighter in a Western movie, giving Murdock the garden view, dusty crimson and autumn yellow.
On the wall to Murdock’s right was a photo portrait of a young woman with her back to the camera, sitting on a yoga mat, holding her bare arms out in a pose of supplication. The time in the photo was early morning—you could tell from the long shadows. The girl was naked from the waist up, and her long hair cascaded down her back.
Miles away from the girl, Cathedral Rock rose from the desert floor like a red-orange monolith.
“I’ve been reading about your heroic exploits,” Ackerman said. “You were a soldier, then a cop, then a private eye. You survived, you’re here, you’ve landed yourself a beautiful woman. Congratulations.”
“I tried reading about you,” Murdock said. “No luck. I tried Google, Wikipedia, Ask.com—found a half dozen news clips, not a single photo. Your bio leaves no footprints, sir.”
“You have questions, just say Open Sesame.”
“Open Sesame,” Murdock said.
“Ask away,” Ackerman said.
“Where’s your retinue?”
“You mean slaves, underlings?”
“Fawners and acolytes,” Murdock said. “Footmen, ladies in waiting.”
“I had a security cadre in New York and Paris, not when I came here. You’re thinking of Warren Buffet in Omaha.”
“So your only security is Bruno?”
“Bruno shoots Marksman level.”
“What about you and weapons?”
“So glad you asked.”
Ackerman worked a zipper on the racquet bag. Hauled out a chrome-plated .45, Colt, vintage 1911. The chrome winked in the morning light. People at other tables went on eating. Arizona was gun heaven. Ackerman handed the .45 to Murdock. Except for the shiny surface, it was identical to Murdock’s personal weapon, brought back from the jungle, memories of Army days. Ackerman’s safety was on, the pistol locked.
“Nice iron.”
“It belonged to my father. He was the only Jew in the Texas National Guard.”
“Can you shoot?”
“I put in my time on the range.”
Murdock returned the pistol, pulled out the list of dead guys. Pointed to the name William Tyler.
“When did you see him last?”
“Are you working for me now?”
“Just sniffing the wind. How about Tyler, the last time you saw him?”
“Last summer.”
“Where?”
“His place on Fire Island.”
“How was he?”
“Healthy as an old horse.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Decades,” Ackerman said. “What’s keeping Miss Steinbeck?”
“Doing her toilette. What about this guy, Findlay?”
“Walter will be along. He knows I have tennis at ten. I’m hoping you can decide before that—your signature, I mean. It’s a mere twenty-four hours, after all.”
“You want Helene, not me.”
“She insisted, I added your name. Welcome aboard.”
“You think it’s bullshit—the contract, no security needed—so you’re going through the motions.”
“I’m enjoying our talk.”
“You like jerking people around.”
“I checked on you, Murdock. Your exploits, your kills. I’m curious about how you work. Are you asking for more money?”
Murdock was hungry.
He was having fun. He was here at this table sitting next to a billion dollars because Giselle Roux—she had hired Helene for the workshop—had seen police reports on two dead guys, buddies of Ackerman, and created a pattern that started in a What If. What if there was a third dead guy, a fourth, a fifth? What if they fell too? What if Ackerman was in danger? Murdock was here because Ackerman was a collector—he bought and sold people and called it contracting. Murdock was here because Ackerman wanted Helene—not a bad motive. The old guy had an eye for women.
Murdock built a forkful—chunk of pancake, then sausage, then egg. He had a rating scale for pancakes. These were number 8, on a scale of ten. He grinned at Ackerman, who grinned back, eyes gleaming, like a lion tamer with a whip.
“What’s this guy Findlay like?” Murdock said.
“Temperamental,” Ackerman said. “With the twitchiness that goes with being an artist. Walter is moody, sometimes bi-polar, a CPA who has very little grasp of numbers, so he makes sketches.”
“What kind of sketches?”
“We go into a business that needed rescuing. The boys on the Crew do the regular stuff, interviews with management, the top labor reps. They study the books, measure the red ink, decamp to the nearest watering hole, make a battle plan. Not Walter. He’s on the factory floor, sketching the machinery, the product, men and women at work. He sketches washrooms and delivery ramps. Walter works non-stop, two days, three nights, giving me magnificent three-D views of the business. Walter has talent. His sketches gave me the heart of the business. When he gets here, he can show you.”
“How many on the Crew?” Murdock said.
“Four, sometimes five, maybe six.”
“How close are you and Findlay?”
“We’re business associates,” Ackerman said. “Walter has a place in Vail, just up the road from my—”
“You have a place in Vail?”
“It’s for sale. Five million-two hundred acres of glass. You interested? My broker is—”
&nb
sp; “Is Findlay married?”
“Third time, contemplating a fourth. Walter has a weakness for the ladies.”
Murdock watched Ackerman shovel food into his mouth. The guy had good footwork. Across the room, two people appeared in the doorway, a guy in a suit, and a woman in boots and khakis and a green jacket with a badge. With them was Giselle Roux, the concierge, looking all-business and very Arizona posh-resort-casual in designer jeans and a man’s white shirt and showy sandals that matched her leather vest.
“Cops,” Murdock said. “Coming this way.”
“The male gendarme is named Slattery,” Ackerman said. “A policeman from Sedona by way of Los Angeles and Phoenix. The female is a Coconino sheriff’s deputy. We’ve never met.”
“They share jurisdiction, right? He’s city of Sedona, and she’s county?”
“How did you know?”
“I was a cop, sir. It’s all about turf.”
Giselle Roux went away, talking on her cellphone. The two cops came down the stairs, looking serious. Murdock signed the contract, folded it, tucked it into his pocket. He was working for a billionaire.
Ackerman stood up to shake hands with a big welcome smile. His look was steady, not hurried, backed by millions of dollars in offshore accounts, a brigade of tax lawyers, and some tough experience in corporate boardrooms. Ackerman’s manner was smooth, like a preacher welcoming parishioners, make them feel good before they opened their wallets. Murdock liked watching the guy maneuver, the handshake, the level look, the understated display of power. An easy five grand. How much could happen in 24 hours? Ackerman introduced Murdock.
Slattery’s suit looked big-city expensive, with silver threads in his perfect blond hair. The suit did not conceal his shoulder rig. Connie Fremont, who wore a belt holster, beamed a smile at Murdock. The waitress brought coffee. Slattery ordered French toast. Connie ordered a poached egg on whole wheat toast, no butter, a lady watching her weight.
“What’s going on, Steve?”
“A guest in the hotel, sir,” Slattery said. “We’re wondering if you know him.”
“What guest?”
Slattery hauled out his cop’s notebook, a gesture that pegged him as older generation—o spiffy electronic device. He exhaled, looked at Ackerman, who had stopped eating.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 2
