Two pickups were parked side-by-side, then a Chevrolet and a Land Rover and yellow bike with red leather panniers.
“All these dead men,” he said. “It cannot be mere coincidence.”
“That’s why I hired Miss Steinbeck … to figure things out.”
“I feel terrible,” Cypher said, “as if it’s my fault.”
“Get over it,” Ackerman said.
“I’m worried about your safety, sir,” Cypher said. “As if there’s something brewing out there, something we can’t see, an evil someone. I feel so helpless. It’s the Hindu Kush all over again, and—”
“The meeting is tomorrow,” Ackerman said. “I spoke to Freddy Delaplane earlier. He’ll be here. I hate what happened to Walt Findlay. We had a history, and he was a great guy, a friend. The cops are on it, Slattery and the deputy. That’s their business. Your business, Cypher, is brokering my goddamn hotel deal.”
Coming back to his desk, Cypher opened the top drawer, pulled out a legal-size folder, tan, businesslike. The tag on the folder said RAMSBANC REAL ESTATE, DALLAS. Helene remembered Ramsbanc from her time in Taos. She also remembered Gerry Ramsay, the tubby CEO, who had been part of that final manhunt. Ramsay was still not in jail, still connected, still walking around. The memory of Gerry Ramsay, his fat face, pissed Helene off.
“What the fuck?” Ackerman said.
“It’s a surprise offer,” Cypher said. “Seventy-two million for Sedona Landing. It arrived this morning by courier. I phoned my owners in Tucson, who were delighted. Are you familiar with Ramsbanc, Mr. Ackerman?”
“I know they’re hurting for capital, assets frozen. Their CEO’s getting a bad name in the business world. Is he the buyer?”
“No. Mr. Ramsay is the broker for an Arab consortium.”
“Fucking Arabs! Are they here in town?”
“They’re coming. I’m not sure when. They want to visit the property. My hands are tied, you see. I work for the owners.”
Ackerman hauled out his cellphone, punched in some numbers, talked to a man named Julius. Helene heard him say “twenty mil, that’s right, talk to Cypher, tell him the check is in the fucking mail.” He passed the phone to Cypher. “Twenty covers Findlay’s ante plus the Arab money.”
Helene was impressed. Ackerman was like an armored vehicle, barrier blocking the road ahead—not a problem, lower your head, blast on through. She had just opened an account with forty-five hundred dollar bills, in cash. Ackerman had just delivered twenty million with a phone call. What was an Arab consortium doing in peaceful Oak Creek Village? Cypher pressed the Off button, handed the phone back.
Ackerman said, “They want a casino so they can launder their goddamn petro dollars.”
“We can’t be sure of that, sir.”
“You know any Arabs?”
“Just a handful of Afghans, from the war.”
Ackerman growled, then grunted as he stood up. He jerked his head at Helene, time to go. His eyes were angry. He liked full speed ahead—didn’t like people who blocked his path. Helene stood up. Ackerman was grinning.
“Fucking Arabs,” he said. “I don’t like that purda shit—what’s the word for that sack-dress they wear?”
“The word is burqa, sir. The veil is called a yashmak.”
“Yeah, well, they did one smart thing, keeping their women from behind the wheel of a Bentley. I got three ex-wives. None of them could pilot a vehicle worth a good goddamn, and with every divorce, my auto insurance dropped by sixty percent. You ready, Steinbeck? I need some fresh air, untainted by Arab frankincense.”
Helene thanked Cypher for opening her account. She told him Murdock would drop by to sign up for the new account. Cypher asked Helene to sign his copy of Murder on Drake Island. Cypher’s first name was Jeremy. She was getting a vibe off him, something sexual—maybe AC/DC, she wasn’t sure. The way he looked at her—not predatory male, but interested.
Outside, in the sun, Helene bopped Ackerman’s shoulder.
“Easy there, Steinbeck.”
“That crack about women drivers, Ack … you’re a real sexist.”
“Man-talk,” Ackerman said. “Male bonding with Cypher. And God’s own truth about my exes—the proof is in how the insurance premiums dropped.”
“Just don’t do the macho sexist thing around me, okay?”
“Okay. What’s your read on the banker man?”
“He’s worried,” Helene said. “Something happens to you, he’ll get blamed.”
“He was in the Army,” Ackerman said. “Not sure where, but today, he seemed, I don’t know, three steps beyond cautious.”
Helene looked up, saw the tower at Sedona Landing, Ackerman’s penthouse on top, unfinished, the never-ending remodel. As they headed up the hill, Helene briefed Ackerman on Gerry Ramsay, the manhunt on Angel Mountain, bleeding feet, Murdock’s clever landslide, how Murdock had taken Ramsay’s boots.
“Perfect,” Ackerman said. “Taking another man’s boots, making him walk in his socks. Goddamn that Murdock anyway. I see why you like him.” Ackerman grinned, showing Helene his teeth. They were mottled, coffee-stained, old-man yellow. Not like the film-star teeth of Jeremy Cypher. How could anyone have teeth that white?
Chapter 11
Karla Kurtz was a runner and a biker. She stood five-eight and weighed 135. She was half German and half Peruvian. She wore black leggings against the morning chill. Over the leggings, she sported expensive Ex Officio hiking shorts from REI. A white blouse with two buttons undone showed the darkness, a hint of mystery, highlighted by a red neck scarf and a tight black vest, like a bartender’s.
She was headed for the table of Mr. BMW, who watched her coming. His eyes stripped off her clothes. Karla was used to being stripped; that’s what men did. It was in their DNA. They stripped you down and then you made them pay.
It was noontime at Red Rock Coffee and Karla was preparing herself for later, for the afternoon, the evening, the night, the money in an envelope. Her day had started at 4:30 with a quick bike ride through the golf course, nothing moving; the only light came from Mr. Cypher’s place on Fox Hollow. No guest-car in the driveway, no rival female in his bed. Karla’s heart sang. Then an easy bike ride to open the coffee place. Two hours wearing her barista mask, then a bike-ride to Sedona Landing, for the workshop with Helene Steinbeck.
The writing had been a surprise. Hiding in the point-of-view of Faith Marie Hunsaker, a fictional character, had been so fun. Karla surprised herself, the words flowing out of her, a river of words, reading aloud, feeling the heat, and then the sacred praise from the teacher. “Karla, that was so terrific!”
Karla loved living here in Oak Creek Village. The weather was great. She felt safe. She had this amazing job. If a girl had to work, Red Rock Coffee was terrific—friendly fellow-baristas, a good boss, great tips from the old geezers. Karla had worked here for six months. Like the Army, it was good cover.
She said ‘Happy Monday’ to Mr. BMW and he said, ‘Call me Morrie, all my friends do,’ and she said ‘Happy Monday, Morrie,’ alert to his age now, his coming incapacity, aware of the red-rimmed eyes, the way his old hands grasped the cup, holding onto something, wanting to grab on to Karla. He was a bachelor. She wouldn’t mind being grabbed if the price was marriage. He invited her for dinner at Elote, a pricey eating place up the road in Sedona, and she said ‘Let me check my calendar’ and he said, ‘Life is short; this could be my last meal,’ and she said ‘Sorry, Morrie, but I have a date already.” She waited while he studied his smartphone, feeling the heat, the bald desire, naked male lust never-ending.
“How’s tomorrow for you?” he said.
“What time?”
“Five-thirty,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll meet you,” she said, and named a place.
She walked away wondering if she could marry this one, live in a good house with good insulation, sleep late, not worry about paying the bills, losing her job. She had researched him already. Morrie Ba
skin owned three domiciles. One in Manhattan, one on Fire Island, and one here in Sedona. He was divorced, four kids, four grandchildren. Morrie Baskin had three bank accounts, a big investment account at Fidelity.
After her shift ended, Karla flew from Cottonwood to Santa Fe, the only passenger in a Lear Jet. She felt special as the plane lifted off from the Jim Bridger Airport. The weather report for Santa Fe said snow so she wore her black leggings under her new jeans. She wore the white shirt from work, the black vest, and a new down parka from North Face. Her black knee boots had cost $750. She loved not being poor.
A silver limo motored her to the hotel, El Condor, one block off the Santa Fe plaza. She registered, using the name Doreen Dorado, the name on her fake business cards. She took a soak bath, then a nap. The phone woke her. Charity Plum’s voice.
“He’s here. Big room on the Terrace level.”
“Where are you, girl?”
“In the lobby,” Charity said.
“Are you okay?”
“I always get edgy … just before,” Charity said. “You want to go over the plan?”
“An accidental encounter at the bar,” Karla said, “followed by some sweet talk, epic sexual stimulation, stairway, bell tower, over to you, right?”
“Costume?” Charity said.
“Black skirt, black knee boots, no stockings.”
“Wear the stockings,” Charity said. “He’s a sucker for mystery.”
“How about the sheer Gothic blacks?”
“Killer stockings,” Charity said. “No underwear.”
“Is this it?” Karla said. “This one, and we’re done?”
“You’re my bait, sweetie. Be present, mind on the job, okay?”
Chapter 12
They drove in Connie’s SUV—white, with Coconino Sheriff on the door—southwest, from the Lemon Custard Bistro, slipping along Highway 179 to the Back of Beyond Road. Like Helene, Connie was a good driver. Murdock could relax. She held her speed to a steady two miles over the limit, pushing the passenger vehicles out of the way, asserting her cop authority without flaunting it.
They waited for Slattery in the parking lot below Cathedral Rock. Murdock had seen it from a distance—the jagged peaks, the three hollows called “saddles,” but now he was putting himself in Findlay’s boots: if Cathedral Rock looked this rough in daylight, how would you feel climbing in the dark?
“He had to be drunk,” Murdock said, “or stoned.”
“Or maybe horny,” Connie said. “One city guy, alone in the moonlight.”
There were vehicles in the parking lot—cars, SUVs, pickups, two Jeeps, a small tour bus—and people in hiking clothes standing behind a temporary fence of yellow ribbons strung on bushes. A Sedona cop guarded the entrance. Connie showed her badge and vouched for Murdock.
When Slattery arrived with Olivia Olivera, Connie briefed them on Murdock’s What-If theory. What if Findlay left the Lemon Custard Bistro with two women? Slattery sighed and said he had too many fucking What-Ifs already. What he needed was facts.
“Like I told you,” he said, “I don’t command the manpower to interrogate the local talent.”
Slattery had changed from the sharp city-cop suit into a blue police jumpsuit, complemented by ankle boots, a walkie-talkie, and a baseball cap that said DODGERS. Armed with a hand-drawn map, Slattery led them through the underbrush to the trail, where a rectangle of yellow ribbons marked the place where Findlay had landed. There were more signs saying CRIME SCENE, DO NOT CROSS. As they approached, Murdock saw climbers up ahead, two guys and a girl, passing around a water bottle.
Slattery called out. “Hey, shithead, can’t you read? Get the fuck out of there!”
The hikers stopped, heads turned toward the signs. Slattery repeated himself, held up his badge, SEDONA POLICE. The hikers said they were sorry, then climbed over the yellow ribbons, chatting. They were alive; Findlay was dead.
Murdock was behind Connie, who was behind Olivera, who was behind Slattery, who was shaking his head. “Fucking ghouls, visiting a crime scene. If I had time, I’d toss them into the pokey. What have we got, Olivia?”
They studied the map, Cathedral Rock and environs. An X pinpointed the landing spot. Murdock remembered falling off a ladder picking peaches at harvest time in California. He remembered a sudden blank place in his mind, the world tilting, then a split second of realization—you have wasted your life—then boom, into the soft dirt, hearing laughter from the other pickers. Murdock imagined the feeling of falling off Cathedral Rock, the wreckage of bone and muscle on impact. What did Findlay think of going down? When he fell, did he have time to hear the crunch of bone on rock?
The ground inside the yellow ribbons was a well-worn hiking trail. Rock and hard pan, packed by thousands of tourists wearing bright happy hiking gear. Olivera pointed at a place beside the X.
“Looks like he landed here,” Olivera said.
“Jesus Christ,” Slattery said. “Let’s climb up there, see if there’s anything left of the goddamn crime scene.”
“Did they find his trousers?” Murdock said.
“In the lab,” Slattery said.
The climb up Cathedral Rock was steep. Slattery took the lead. His feet kept sliding, the little rocks making skittery sounds. He was climbing too fast, the head man in the lead, sweating and cursing. Olivera, sounding like a worried mother, told him to take it easy. Connie was sweating, grunting when the grade steepened, and Murdock was feeling okay, glad he had spent the last week running, getting his body in shape after Taos. Halfway up the trail, Murdock broke a sweat. The wind came around a corner, a sharp November breeze. The sun was dropping fast—autumn in Arizona. They had maybe 90 minutes of light left.
Slattery ran up against a cul-de-sac. He said, “Fuck it,” and gave the lead to Olivera, who followed the hand-drawn map around a rock wall, the trail narrow now, through an arbor formed by twisted desert trees, their trunks turned magical by wind, and adorned with a hand-painted sign that said “Vortex, I Am Here, Show me the Way.” Through the twisted trees, they followed Olivera to a flat place looking south, where stakes and crime scene ribbons corralled an oval area.
“They think he went over here,” Olivera said.
“What do the scuff marks tell us?” Murdock said.
“The techs found five different boot-sole types. One of them matched Findlay’s boots. They’re testing the dirt samples for DNA.”
“So he died with boots and without his trousers?” Connie said.
“So he got thrown off?” Slattery said.
“What if they danced?” Murdock said.
“How you figure that?”
“Follow the swirls,” Murdock said. “What if they started out a threesome, dancing in the dark, then what if one of them broke free, leaving a twosome?”
“And then they were one,” Connie said. “One man falling.”
“I don’t fucking get it,” Slattery said. “You want someone killed, why go to all this trouble? All this work—the bar, the drive, the climb, the sexy dancing? Why not just stab him and leave him down below?”
“They wanted a splash,” Murdock said.
“They? You mean the two broads?”
“Or the person who hired them.”
“What person? Where the fuck does this theoretical shit come from, Murdock? What splash?”
“Look out there,” Murdock said.
Murdock pointed to the roads approaching Cathedral Rock, a line of vehicles coming this way.
“Christ,” Slattery said. “You’re saying they wanted this kind of publicity?”
“I think it’s a he,” Murdock said. “He wants the world to notice. And he’s thinking big-time. And maybe even thinking acceleration.”
“Thank you for that theoretical analysis, mister private eye,” Slattery said. “That’s very helpful, it really moves the investigation forward—your hypothetical He.”
A beep from Olivera’s smartphone. She pressed a button, listened, and said, “Send it
to me, okay?” Then she said, “Okay, guys. It’s Murdock’s photo. Look at this.”
She passed the smartphone to Slattery, who said, “So what?” and passed the phone to Connie.
“It’s all blurry,” Connie said, and passed the phone to Murdock.
The little screen showed a blow-up of one photo from last night. At first, Murdock saw only the brightness of the moon and the darkness of the rock. Against the brightness, he saw what looked like an object bisecting the line where bright moonlight gave way to the dark. Could that be Findlay falling? To the left of the object, Murdock thought he saw a dimness that could have been one of the hypothetical killer females.
His fingers were tight on the phone, which he handed to Connie. She looked sad. Olivera looked sad. Slattery looked exasperated, wasting time here. Murdock felt wasted and useless.
Maybe he was getting too old for detective work. Maybe he should stop detecting and ask Giselle Roux for a job, working security at Sedona Landing, the graveyard shift. Unwind his last years checking doorknobs.
Murdock and Connie were on Verde Valley School Road, on the way to Sedona Landing, when her cellphone beeped. Findlay’s rental car had been found in the parking lot at the CRMC—the acronym for Cottonwood Regional Medical Center. Murdock had seen it from the road a couple days ago. As they approached the hotel parking lot, Connie asked how long he and Helene had been together.
*****
Helene jotted notes on her meeting with Cypher. A neat guy, precise, edgy about the dead guys. She jotted questions. How did Cypher stay in shape? How much was he worth? Where did he grow up? There was no gold wedding band. Had he been married? Was he really reading the Odyssey?
She typed the notes into her laptop. Drank coffee, edited pages in her manuscript. She kept writing, but nothing clicked, the words had no bite. She was behind on her schedule. She still had nightmares. She was worried about her relationship with Murdock. He was off with Connie Fremont, Little Miss Western Girl Deputy Person.
Helene paced the room, arms crossed, her mouth soured by too much coffee. Suite 919 looked down on the tennis courts, where she saw Javier Trujillo with a leaf blower. Helene grabbed a sweater and her racquet, took the stairs down.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 5
