“His name is Walter Findlay.”
“I know Walter, of course. Why do you ask?”
“When did you last see him, sir?”
“Tell me what’s going on, Steve.”
“A body was found this morning, identified as Walter J. Findlay, Colorado driver’s license, residence in Vail, and—”
“Walt,” Ackerman said, “are you sure?”
“So what time did you last see Mr. Findlay?”
“Jesus,” Ackerman said, “five or five-thirty. Walter was feeling restless. He invited me for a drink in Sedona, I said no. Goddammit, Steve, I phoned him, left messages, Christ.”
Chapter 5
Ackerman’s face had gone ashy white. When his mouth opened, no sound came out. He turned from Slattery to Murdock, his eyes begging. His big hands gripped the edge of the table, white knuckles under the tan.
Across the room, Murdock saw Helene Steinbeck framed in the doorway, dressed for her workshop, rucksack over her shoulder, looking beautiful. She was chatting with a college girl named Teri Breedlove, Ackerman’s tennis partner. Teri was blonde, with showgirl legs and a Purity Ring on a chain around her neck.
Ackerman pushed himself away from the table. His chair fell over.
He tried to stand, stumbled, caught himself, one bony hand on Murdock’s shoulder. Murdock gripped Ackerman’s arm. Steady, easy, don’t panic.
“Not Findlay,” Ackerman said. “He can’t …. We have a goddamn meeting. He’s bringing earnest money. Murdock, goddammit, why don’t you earn ….”
Fremont took Ackerman’s other arm.
Steve Slattery sat there, nothing in his face. No sadness, no despair, just resignation. This is the way of the world. He nodded at Murdock.
Ackerman was too big to carry. Murdock hoped he would not faint. He could hear Connie Fremont murmuring, caring words to keep the old guy upright. Ackerman said, “Goddammit, not Walter too. The son-of-a-bitch hates meetings, better not leave me holding ….”
He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes. Another name on Giselle Roux’s list of soon-to-be dead guys. Who was next?
They met in the center of the room.
Helene asked what was wrong. Murdock told her that Findlay was dead. Ackerman stared at Helene, his eyes looked lost. The girl, Teri Breedlove, asked Ackerman were they still on for tennis. She needed to know, okay, because if they weren’t, she could barista for extra hours at Red Rock Coffee. Teri was a Millennial—to her, barista was an okay verb. If her tennis partner cancelled, Teri would adjust her schedule. She just needed to verify, okay?
Helene’s eyes flicked from Murdock to Connie. She took a deep breath, as if she was inhaling the situation. Ackerman said, “Goddamn police, goddamn Walter, goddamn fucking bad news.”
Murdock saw Bruno coming down the stairs, looking worried.
“Bruno,” Ackerman said. “Christ, did you know—”
“Come on,” Bruno said. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Come on.”
There were only three steps connecting the Bell Rock Bistro to the vestibule at Sedona Landing, but the journey of Bruno and Ackerman seemed to take forever. Two old men climbing the stairs. Life was short, a man only got a certain number of climbs, a finite number of stairs, then nothing. Murdock stood with Connie and Helene, watching Bruno use his keycard for the penthouse elevator. Teri Breedlove was on her cellphone, connecting about her schedule.
“I hated coming here this morning,” Connie said.
“Where was the body?” Helene said.
“Below Cathedral Rock.”
Murdock said, “Got a time of death?”
“Around midnight, an hour on each side, why?”
“I was out there,” Murdock said. “I shot the moon around midnight, maybe a mile away and—”
“Why were you shooting Cathedral Rock in the middle of the night?” Connie said.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Murdock said. “A hotel security guy got sick, I volunteered to help out. It was a great night—no wind, that big moon.”
“It’s a new camera,” Helene said. “Murdock was testing it for me.”
“We’ve got a great forensics gal,” Connie said. “Steve’s going crazy, a death on his turf. Where’s the camera?”
“In our room, ninth floor.”
“Let’s get it,” Connie said.
“You two go for the camera,” Helene said. “I’ve got that workshop. I need some food.”
“Let’s do it,” Connie said.
*****
Ackerman rode the elevator leaning on Bruno, who said nothing. No de-briefing, no cross-examination. The walls closed in; his claustrophobia was back. His head was cold, felt steamy. He told Bruno to call Freddy Delaplane, then Georgie Hawthorne. Tell them not to come, Ackerman said.
The door opened on Ten, penthouse level, the smell of sheetrock mud drying. They were behind on the guest bathrooms, something wrong with a tile-setter. Down the hallway, he saw two workmen carrying plywood. They called out good morning. Findlay was dead from falling. The workers kept working.
Ackerman stumbled his way across the carpet to the black door. He eyed the knocker, eight inches of black iron, curved like a scimitar. The knocker dated from the Middle Ages. Purchased from a shop in the Place des Vosges, from a woman in a tight white dress, a woman who took Ackerman’s money, then invited him in for a drink.
A woman with a French nose, Parisian lips, slim wrists.
The woman in the white dress collected nudes. Slim boys, slender girls. The centerpiece was a copy of Donatello’s David, the curls, the beribboned hat, the sword, the girlish buttocks, the hint of naughty Parisian sex.
She sat across from him, skirt rising up, presenting her crossed legs. His heart beat faster.
He remembered she took her time refilling his glass, a litany of moves, slow and precise, loaded with seductive intent. A brush of her thigh, a hand on his face, burning. A finger probing his ear. Ackerman remembered the bedroom, the narrow bed, the white dress draped on a chair near the window. The woman was smooth, like the statue of David, smirking in his cocked hat. “I like you, Monsieur American. How long can you stay?”
Ackerman had other business in Paris; he was buying a hotel. He left the woman, took the black door knocker. It traveled back with him to America, speaking for him —Ackerman’s fist in the face of an uncaring universe.
I am old. I am alive. I am a man yet.
Now they were trying to kill him.
Bruno used the keycard to open the black door. Ackerman went inside, pushing death away. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Bruno brought tea. Ackerman thought about the old days, Walt Findlay sketching, a clipboard, a yellow legal pad, colored ink, another business to rescue. When the phone rang, Ackerman was crying. The caller was Dr. Tim, downstairs. Dr. Tim had Ackerman’s pills. Permission to ascend?
*****
In the elevator, Connie Fremont asked questions. Oak Creek Village was her beat. How did Murdock like it? How long had he been here? How had he met Helene Steinbeck? Connie was reading Helene’s book. Could she get an autograph? The elevator stopped at Nine. Murdock led the way to Room 919, a corner suite. Findlay’s room was down the hall, Room 900. Murdock remembered seeing him, two days ago, a medium-sized guy with a Caymans tan.
Murdock unlocked the door to 919, the complimentary suite, part of Helene’s package for teaching the workshop. He was feeling edgy. Connie Fremont went in first. Helene’s camera sat on the table, next to the manuscript. Connie asked to use the bathroom. Murdock pointed to the bedroom and said, “Through there.” He checked the photos. Maybe the camera had a time-stamp. Blur, blur, blur, and then the camera caught the moon behind the rock, and a black something silhouetted.
The toilet flushed. Connie Fremont stood in the doorway, smiling. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said. She stood next to him, checking out the photo, holding her deputy hat against her thigh. Her hair smelled like ripe wheat. Her head tilted down, Murdock had a clos
e-up of her ear. She looked up at him, like an actress presenting her face for a kiss.
“So, if that’s him we’ve got two people up there,” she said. “A gal gets a guy’s pants off, then gives him a shove. What’s the motive?”
“Or we’ve got three people,” Murdock said. “Two gals and a guy.”
“It was down to twenty degrees last night,” Connie said. “Even if he had the hots, why would he …. I guess we better wait for the labs.”
“How did he get out there?” Murdock said. “Where was he before that?”
“We’re checking for a rental vehicle now.”
The elevator going down felt tight, like the walls were closing in. Murdock had sweat under his arms. Connie leaned against the wall, hands behind her, palms against the wall, like a slave in a dungeon. Her slack pose told him she was available. As the elevator doors opened, Connie touched his arm, “Thanks for showing me the view.”
Murdock almost asked her where she lived. A little voice told him not to.
Chapter 6
Helene checked her watch.
Eight twenty-eight, not much time for breakfast. She hated to be late. At the table, Helene met Slattery, a cop with suspicious eyes. Was the blonde deputy with him?
Josefina the waitress took orders. Helene got a poached egg on whole wheat toast. Teri Breedlove ordered Danish and hot tea. Helene sipped her coffee. Things were happening fast at Sedona Landing, a new week, a new rhythm to her day, a new corpse.
Murdock came back to the table. Time for introductions. The blonde with the badge was Deputy Connie Fremont, a warm handshake for Helene but she had eyes for Murdock. How long did it take to fetch a camera, anyway? Slattery’s cellphone rang, and he left the table.
Helene turned to Connie. “How does the body look,” she said, “after a fall like that?”
“Not a pretty picture,” Connie said. “Ribs crushed, his shoulder shattered, his cheek caved in. We’re waiting for Olivera, the Crime Scene tech. She’s out there now. The guy landed on his shoulder. One arm was twisted, the other was flung out, like he was trying to fly.”
“Olivia Olivera?” Murdock said.
“You know her?” Connie said.
“We worked a couple cases in California.”
Helene sipped her coffee. Another female rising up from Murdock’s past, and this one a crime-scene person with an exotic name. Helene felt Connie hovering, waiting for the right moment, ready to pounce. Then Giselle Roux came down the steps, carrying her laptop and a yellow legal pad. Helene was jealous of Giselle’s figure, long legs, tight tush, her red hair sleek and perfect. The waitress arrived with fresh coffee. Giselle sat next to Helene, her eyes grateful.
“Thank you both for helping us out on that contract,” she said. “Axel is an old fool. His macho bullshit kept him from seeing reality. I liked Walter—he was so artistic, I hate that he is dead—but now we have turned a corner, no more denials. You’ve got to find out who’s behind these killings.”
“Did you say ‘killings,’ plural?” Connie said.
“Two bankers,” Murdock said. “August and September, old business pals.”
“So Findlay is number three?” Connie’s voice was sharp. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“I mentioned it,” Giselle said.
“When? I don’t remember.”
“Early fall,” Giselle said. “A man named Coolidge fell at his home in Palm Desert.”
Slattery came back to the table. He leered at Giselle, some history buried there. He held up his cellphone.
“That was Olivera on the horn, people. She’s on the way, with a warrant to search the victim’s room. So we’ll need a key, okay, Miss Roux? There was something else—what the fuck was it, oh yeah—seems Olivera is buddies with Sherlock Murdock, wants him with us when we check out the room. One more amateur to fuck up my case, just kidding and …. Where are you guys going?”
“Helene’s teaching a workshop,” Giselle said.
“Just what the world needs,” Slattery said, “more amateurs writing about real cops. You want, I could be persuaded to give a guest lecture.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Helene said.
“Call me Steve, okay?”
“I could turn this case over to Sherlock Murdock here,” Slattery said. “Bring him out of retirement—the case of the falling banker.”
“Steve,” Connie said. “There’s a serial possibility here. Findlay is corpse number three.”
Teri Breedlove went pale. She stood up, muttered something about making a call, and walked away. Steve Slattery watched her go.
*****
Helene checked the time, ten minutes to nine. The contract lay on the table, next to Ackerman’s plate. While Helene watched, Murdock signed the contract. She gave him a smile. Across the table, Slattery and Connie were discussing the case—three dead, two to go, why hadn’t they been alerted? Then Slattery told Connie she was ruining his breakfast. She excused herself, be right back. Slattery said to the table: “No killings here, not in my fucking backyard. Where the hell is Olivera?”
Helene stood up, nodded at Slattery, touched Murdock’s shoulder. Giselle Roux left with Helene. Who was this Olivera person who wanted Murdock at the crime scene? Another old girlfriend?
As they approached the stairs, Giselle indicated the photo-portrait of the young woman staring across the desert floor at Cathedral Rock. Giselle said, “Do you recognize our own Teri Breedlove?”
“My God,” Helene said. “How old was she?”
“It was a couple years ago. She was maybe sixteen.”
“What’s going on with her and Axel?”
“She flirts, he dreams of conquest,” Giselle said. “She keeps him dancing, he pays for college.”
“She’s so young,” Helene said. “So smart and polished, I remember being gawky at that age.”
Giselle nodded, and a look of sadness crossed her face. She took Helene’s arm, gave her a smile, and walked with her up the steps, a right turn to the Yavapai Room, for the first day of the mystery workshop.
Chapter 7
Olivia Olivera looked the same—five-six, short black hair, that wide smile when a case went well. She gave Murdock a quick hug, good to see you, how long has it been, come with us while we check out the vic’s room. They had not seen each other since that case in Newport Beach, six or seven years ago.
In the elevator Connie handed over Helene’s Sure Shot camera. Olivera would hand it over to the lab guys. Slattery said he was sure the camera would solve the case, open and shut, and gave Murdock a look that said, Beat it, Bud.
Findlay had the 900 Suite, corner windows, with a view of highway 179. A lot of space in here—a sitting room, giant TV, master bedroom, king bed, giant TV number two, a big bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub, a bidet, a shower with two nozzles, a guest bedroom. Olivera handed out white latex gloves and blue booties that crinkled when you walked.
Walter Findlay had traveled light. One suitcase, one carry-on. His computer was an AirMac Pro. Olivera slid it into a padded envelope, labeled it, set it aside. In the closet, they found corduroy trousers, a tweed jacket, a button-down shirt and red necktie. A pair of Mephisto walking shoes that made Slattery whistle and say, “How the one percent lives.”
“These puppies start at three-fifty,” Olivera said.
The suitcase was Kenneth Cole, the carry-on was a Ferragamo, gray leather, exuding the sleek sexuality of money. Slattery hefted it, testing, then looked inside. From the way he handled the carry-on, Murdock could see envy working.
“Fuck,” Slattery said. “Would you look at this?”
“I want one of those,” Olivera said.
“You got people checking his back trail?” Murdock said.
“Hey, Sherlock, this is Sedona, not the big city. We are spread so thin that … okay, so what theory are you pushing?”
“What if Findlay had a date?” Murdock said. “What if he met some gals at a bar? What if they hauled him out to the Rock. What if they
promised sex if he gave up his pants?”
“That is fucking crazy,” Slattery said. “Enough with the What-Ifs. We got photos, Olivia?” Before he could ask more questions, Slattery’s phone rang, taking him out of the room. It was not easy, being in charge.
Olivera opened the padded envelope and hauled out the fancy silver Macintosh. She raised her eyebrows when it booted with a soft beep. “God forgive me,” she said. “I’m in love with a machine.” Murdock watched over her shoulder. Connie stood close, smelling faintly of perfume.
In a document called Walt’s Pix, Olivera found photos of a thin-faced guy she guessed was Walter Findlay. One grouping of photos portrayed him as a happy family man—a house in the hills, rocks and pine trees, a child on the porch, Findlay grinning into the camera, holding the hand of a second girl, a woman holding the other hand.
Olivera said: “Got a wife and mother here, two kids. You know where he lived?”
“Vail,” Murdock said.
Slattery reentered, started tossing the bed. His movements were excessive, too much noise, a bull male in the forest.
Another set of photos showed Findlay with more tan, hoisting a dark bottle. He was sitting on a beached catamaran, barefoot, wearing baggy beach shorts and dark glasses, grinning at a girl wearing bikini bottoms, no top. The girl came back twice in the photo set, posing with Findlay and a second girl. There were 22 photos; 19 showed Findlay and two girls, some with bras, some bare-breasted.
“Hard to believe this old guy is wired for two-twenty,” Slattery said.
“The pix support Murdock’s theory,” Connie said.
“What fucking theory?”
“Two Female Killers,” Murdock said.
“Nothing in the goddamn bed,” Slattery said. “Except maybe a whiff of old jism. Might as well have a theory.”
“Can you get me a couple prints?” Murdock said.
Olivera nodded, shoved in a memory stick. The laptop made a silvery noise like a ghost whispering. Olivera said, “Done,” and handed the stick to Murdock.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 3
