Slattery edged up, close to Murdock, while Olivera went through the photos. Slattery was short, his eyes were three inches below Murdock’s, but he wore his bulldog face, the jaw thrust forward, and gave Murdock the steel-cop gaze.
“Okay,” Slattery said. “You want into my case, find out where Findlay was last night. So flash some photos around, run the bars, report everything to me—and no cowboy bullshit. You got a weapon?”
“In my room.”
“You’re after intel, got that? We need more dope on this Findlay guy. I heard about your interrogation techniques. No bent fingers, no busted noses, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And take Fremont with you … for the badge.”
“Happy to do that.”
“Remember … anything you say or even fucking think, Fremont will tell her boss, Sheriff Coconino. He’s up for re-election, which is why he sent her over on this fucking Findlay thing. So keep your lip zipped, understood?”
“Shut up, Steve,” Connie said.
They left Slattery and Olivera in Findlay’s suite. Connie Fremont was quiet in the elevator, soft smile, a twinkle in her eyes. They stopped at the desk, where Raul printed six color photos from the memory stick. They took the side entrance, around the pool and past the tennis courts, where Ackerman was playing mixed doubles with Breedlove. She had good strokes. Her footwork showed experience. Her backhand, hit with two hands, was better than her forehand. Ackerman’s old white tennis bag rested on the courtside bench, putting the chrome Colt .45 three seconds away.
The players changed sides. Ackerman broke away and walked over. The color was back in his face. He asked about the contract. Murdock nodded.
“Did Findlay say where he was going?”
“Hunting,” Ackerman said. “Where he always went.”
“Did he mention a local bar, maybe a restaurant?” Connie said.
“Not to me.”
“If you think of anything,” Murdock said. “Give us a call.”
“Catch the turd who did this,” Ackerman said.
Connie gave him a smile. “Mr. Ackerman, you’re looking more like yourself, sir.”
“Are you married, Deputy?” Ackerman said, grinning. “Are you open for dinner with a lonely old geezer?”
Chapter 8
Helene Steinbeck stood at the door to the Yavapai Meeting Room, greeting her fledgling mystery writers. She welcomed them with a smile and a firm handshake, then passed them onto Giselle Roux, who gave them a hand-lettered name tag. Helene had 18 names on her roster.
She explained the rules of writing practice—keep the hand moving, don’t cross out, spend it all—and then she wrote key words on the white board: crime, victim, killer, discovery, reporting the crime. Then she printed out the writing prompt:
My name is….
I am the killer.
My first kill was ….
Silence in the Yavapai Room, eighteen writers writing. Helene wrote a piece for her next book. She was trying to use writing to get a grip, to understand why she had almost died. She stared at her handwriting—it was barely legible. Her hand was cramping. Terror in Taos. When the timer went off, she asked for volunteers. The first reader was Giselle Roux, who wrote about female slaves trapped on a desert island ruled over by an aging potentate, probing her time with Axel Ackerman.
The last reader was Karla Kurtz, late twenties, black hair, a hard face, Indian blood. Karla stood straight, with the tight body of an athlete. Her voice started soft, then got stronger:
My name is Faith Marie Hunsaker. I am eleven years old and big with promise. My first kill is Uncle Lonnie Dove. He fathers my baby. Uncle Lonnie is Mama’s younger brother. He’s always after me, just one kiss. First I give in, then I fight him; he wants to fornicate with me. Fornication is a sin. I bloody his nose, he hurts my arm, pinches me to raise welts. One hot afternoon, Uncle Lonnie covers my head with a smelly pillow slip. He ropes my arms with a clothesline. Uncle Lonnie is a red-faced man, thirty years old. He smells like cat pee, laughs in my face, forces my legs apart, sticks it inside. I am real good with numbers. Ten weeks after he forces me I begin to show. Papa notices first. Papa is a man of God, a preacher in the church. Abortion is a sin. Papa tells Mama, she shakes me by the arm. You are going to Hell, she says. It was Uncle Lonnie, I say. Mama washes my mouth out with soap; it makes me throw up. She whips my legs with a belt. My daddy drives me to a rickety section of town. I lie down on a cold sheet in a cold room while a skinny man called Doc spreads my legs and takes my baby, a bloody mess. Seven weeks after they take my baby, Uncle Lonnie comes at me again. I’m down by the river. He smells of whisky; he chases me onto the footbridge. It is evening, the sun is low, I am dressed like Mama in a shirt-waist dress. Eleven years old and already a Jezebel. He grabs my arm. I say okay, Lonnie, you get one kiss, give me five dollars. He laughs, pulls me close, holds me tight, I dance him to the edge, my knee gets between his legs. He says, You are all growed up, girl. I raise my knee, hurting his privates. He grunts and lets go my arm and I push him over and he falls with a whump into the water. He is my first bastard fornicator. He made me bleed something terrible and ….
When Karla finished reading, the class applauded, making her blush. Listening to Karla read, Helene was excited. This woman had talent. Her readings lit a fire under the other writers.
At the door, heading out, Helene stopped Karla Kurtz.
“Great storytelling, Karla. You had us on the edge of our seats.”
“Thank you, Miss Steinbeck.”
“Call me Helene, okay?”
“Gotta run, I’m late for work. See you Wednesday!”
Helene packed her rucksack, feeling revved. With such a great start to her workshop, she was glowing, had forgotten about the three dead men. She had not forgotten about Connie Fremont. She walked with Giselle to the Bell Rock Bistro, where she was meeting Ackerman, for a walk to Vortex Bank, where he was meeting with his banker, who would open an account for Helene.
Helene asked Giselle about the guy who had fallen off Cathedral Rock.
“Did you know Walter Findlay?”
“Oh, yes. We met my first year with Axel.”
“What was he like?”
“Like all of them,” she said. “Walter hated getting old. He biked, he jogged, he did push-ups.”
“Did he ask you out?”
“They all ask me out—”
“They?”
“To Axel’s business brothers,” Giselle said, “any female looks ready to lie down and be pillaged by Huns.”
“So did you go out with Walter Findlay?”
“A long time ago, we had a drink. Walter was always between marriages. He knew nothing about a woman’s needs. He tried to get me into bed. He was drunk, I remember, and not so charming.”
“How did he get along with Ackerman?”
“They’re men; they had an ongoing pissing contest,” Giselle said. “Walter wanted the penthouse, but Axel got there first with a pricey remodel.”
“He told me you were acting as general contractor.”
“I love to build,” Giselle said. “I managed a remodel for Axel’s house in Vail. If I could get away from him, I’d plunge into architecture.”
“What do you mean, ‘if’?”
“Can’t you tell? I love him. I wish I didn’t. We think alike; he vibrates with power. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it?”
Chapter 9
Murdock and Connie Fremont started with the pubs in Oak Creek Village—flashing the Walter Findlay beach photos in P.J.’s Pub and the Full Moon Saloon. No takers. No one remembered. Lots of old guys hunting in Sedona.
Then they drove north on Highway 179 in bright winter sunshine, seven miles to the center of Sedona, population 10,001, showing the photos in Mooney’s, the Oak Creek Brewery, the Cowboy Club—almost a positive ID there, then a headshake, wrong guy, sorry. They visited the two Rs—Renee’s and Relics. Nothing there. Connie moved aside, letting Murdock work. She smiled at him,
nodded encouragement. She kept brushing him with her shoulder.
They wound up at the Lemon Custard Bistro, where the Sunday night customer magnet was Retro Film night from 9 p.m. to whenever. The film from last night was The Big Lebowski.
Connie said: “I came here once. My date was a film buff and they were showing Blade Runner, with Harrison Ford—be still my heart.”
Murdock said, “Maybe Findlay was a closet film buff.”
“Let’s ask Mr. Ackerman.”
“What do you think of Ackerman?”
“He undressed me,” Connie said. “Stripped off my clothes right there at the table. I felt those old eyes measuring me. It was invasive, but certainly not surprising. He wanted me and he let me know it.”
“Did you want to arrest him?”
“Hey! He’s old, rich, but a girl always likes to choose … you know?”
She squeezed Murdock’s arm. Gave him a little smile.
The day manager, a woman, led them past the giant wall-mounted TV screens to the back office, where the night manager was napping. The night manager was a chubby bald man in his late forties, a jowly hang-dog face, a pungent body odor smelling of dirt and sweat. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, blinking at them and sipping coffee laced with brandy. He stared at the photos—Findlay on the beach—took a close look at the photo with the two women.
“Yeah,” the manager said. “There was a guy who looked like that, all by himself—good tan, a little too old for the regular crowd. The next time I look up he’s sitting with a blonde. A looker, sitting close.”
“Remember who waited on him?”
“We had a waitress out with the flu. She sent along a friend to fill in.”
“Remember the friend’s name?”
“Something biblical,” the manager said. “Faith or Hope or something. She was maybe my age, tight body, black hair, only it didn’t look real.”
“A wig, you mean?”
“We get a sprinkling of older ladies in here,” he said. “It’s like this reflex. The hair, I mean. A guy with no hair notices someone with fake hair, like that.”
“What was he drinking?” Connie said.
“Martinis,” the manager said, “with three olives.”
“How were the women dressed?” Murdock said.
“Hiking togs,” the manager said. “The blonde had a good-looking parka, maybe North Face. The brunette had a yellow parka and a long red scarf, good quality there too. Why all these questions?
“Our man has turned up missing,” Connie said.
“You suspect foul play?” the manager said.
“How were they with each other?” Murdock said.
“How do you mean?”
“Did the two females know each other? Did they act like strangers? Were they competing for this guy’s attention?”
“That’s a tough one. You know broads; they got this thing where they build these instant relationships. They meet, they look each other in the eye, they start bonding. It’s a foreign language. If you’re a guy, you are shut out, totally. How the fuck should I know?”
“What time did they leave?” Murdock said.
“Sorry,” he said. “I look up, they are out of here.”
“Did they leave together?” Connie said.
“I think maybe the guy left with the blonde, which I would have. Man, this place was a circus.”
“So the waitress did not leave with the other two?”
“Jesus,” he said. “Has something happened to this guy? Something I gotta worry about? Jesus, do I need a lawyer?”
Connie Fremont left her card.
Outside, they stood in the sun. Murdock liked this temperature, warm in the daytime, cold at night. What was it like in the summer? Connie’s cellphone rang. She said, “Hello, Steve,” and walked away.
Using What-Ifs, Murdock replayed the scene in the Lemon Custard Bistro.
What if two women picked up Walter Findlay?
What if they were pros, a planned operation, a careful exit.
What if they motored him out to Cathedral Rock—he was juiced on martinis, got him on the trail, up the mountain. What if they got his boots off, his trousers, a real swinging dick in the moonlight.
So what if Findlay knew he was going to get lucky and played along? They shoved him off, or made him trip and fall. They did not report the fall. They were pros.
What if they wanted a corpse who fell?
What if they were motivated by hate—they wanted revenge on retired bankers?
What if they were motivated by money—someone paid them to do the dirty work?
Connie was off the phone, grinning at Murdock. He shut down the What-if machine.
“That was Steve,” she said. “How about a date, just you and me … and a crime scene?”
Chapter 10
After lunch, Helene Walked to the bank with Ackerman. She kept thinking about the writing of Karla Kurtz, so powerful, so with it, all that intensity.
A man had died last night, someone Helene had never met, falling off Cathedral Rock. Helene took a deep breath. She was alive, she could feel the sun-heat. It was late Fall in Oak Creek Village. Every day gave her more distance from Taos.
The envelope of money, fifty fat hundred dollar bills, bulged in the flap pocket of her cargo shorts. Her first day’s pay, working for Ackerman, a new joint account with Murdock, four thousand five hundred for the bank, $500 for pocket money.
For the walk, Helene wore a Tilley safari hat, light-tan color, new from REI. Her old hat was lost up there, somewhere on Angel Mountain.
In sneakers with white ankle socks, she matched strides with Axel Ackerman. Her Glock was in her shoulder bag. She was bodyguarding her first billionaire.
Ackerman’s legs looked bony in his knee-length shorts. The shorts were khaki, and his windbreaker was pale blue, matching his eyes. The tennis cap was dark green, sporting the Nike logo. He swung an old wooden cane, in case his knee went out.
It was heavy and scarred, with a pistol grip handle crossed with black electrical tape.
“This historical stick belonged to my father,” Ackerman said. “He was the premier men’s tailor in Dallas. Papa inherited the cane from his father, when the family came over from Vienna. You want to know what happened to Papa’s business?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“Hart Schaffner Marx—that’s what—and Brooks Brothers ready-made suits and those washable suits from Haspel—God forgive me, when I went to work for Lehmann’s, I had three Haspel’s in my closet. Like a lot of old world artisans, Papa got sidelined by technology. His old customers died, the new customers bought business suits off the rack. They saved a couple bucks, but Papa spent his last years doing alterations for a department store ….”
“What was his name … your father?”
“Israel Axel Ackerman. His big dream was going back to Europe, Vienna, Prague, even London, where they still cut their cloth using chalk outlines. There’s the bank, perfect for a village like Baja Sedona.”
The street curved toward a strip mall. Helene saw a dry cleaner, a used book store, and a bike shop. Vortex Bank was a two-story adobe with a red tile roof and big tinted windows in front. The entry was red pavers, a black-stone walkway, and a gurgling fountain. To reach the front door, you walked past a giant vortex made of Plexiglas and turning on a black pedestal. Ackerman told her the vortex was eighteen inches taller than the statue of David in Florence. As they passed the vortex, Helene shivered. She felt something tugging at her.
“This particular vortex is masculine,” Ackerman said. “It turns clockwise, with the clock.”
“I heard just the opposite,” Helene said.
“About vortexes?” he said.
“You know men,” she said. “Their lust for conquest. Two men in a room, they stage a pissing contest—the masculine vortex turns backward, against the flow of time. That’s a perfect example of male arrogance, pushing against the clock. Do people really pronounce it like that?
Vortexes?”
Ackerman said, “Ask Giselle Roux. One day I said vortices, she corrected me. How’s she doing in your workshop?”
“You want to know what she’s writing about?”
“Is she writing about me?”
“Sorry, workshop writing stays in the workshop.”
The heavy glass door opened and Helene saw a woman in slacks and a short jacket. The woman smiled. Her name tag said MARTA, MANAGER, and she was nodding—yes, of course, anything I can do—flashing signals that acknowledged her awareness of Ackerman’s wealth. Across the lobby, next to the walk-in vault, was a glassed-in office, where a good-looking man was talking on the phone.
“That’s our Mr. Cypher,” the manager said, “he’s ready for you.”
Inside the glass office, Helene shook hands.
The man called Cypher wore a khaki suit, great fit—it had to be tailored—and a striped tie. He wore brown Cordovans, a heavy sole, high polish. His handshake was firm, warm blood, level gaze, a hand kept strong with exercise, a keeper of the money under tight control. His haircut was short, almost military, and his eyes took her in. She felt a vibe of interest, boy-girl, welcome to my glass-walled office. On the corner of the desk were two books. One was Murder on Drake Island, the other was Homer’s Odyssey. Cypher was a reader.
He printed words on a card. New Account, $4,500. Helene Steinbeck and Matt Murdock. He welcomed her to the bank, very formal, no ironic undertone.
She felt dusted off, the unwanted female in male territory.
He offered to see her out—he had business with Ackerman, this Findlay thing, how terrible.
“Findlay’s dead,” Ackerman said. “Can’t change that. Steinbeck works for me; she stays.”
“As you wish,” Cypher said.
Cypher opened the lid of his laptop, turned it so Ackerman could see.
“Mr. Findlay’s share was ten million and—”
“I’ll cover it,” Ackerman said. “I covered for Tyler and Coolidge.”
Cypher sighed, shook his head.
Standing, he marched to the window that looked out onto the parking lot.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 4
