Murdock Rocks Sedona

by Robert J. Ray

  “Delaplane was a business partner,” Murdock said. “Did see his room?”

  “A suite,” Julio said. “They dusted it, no extra prints.”

  “Any money on Delaplane?”

  “No wallet, no cash.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Mid-sixties,” Julio said. “A little heavy, great-looking head of hair.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Khakis, a fresh shirt, leather bomber jacket that could have cost two grand. Pricey ankle boots, maybe six hundred.”

  “What time did they find him?”

  “Seven thirty. A door was banging in the wind; they sent a maid to check it out.”

  “Have they tracked his movements before he went to the Bell Tower?”

  “He was in the bar. The bartender remembers him—he tipped good, paid for drinks for a broad, guys and gals, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “The bartender, what’s his name?”

  “Ginger,” Julio said. “He’s a she. The reason I know is, we had a couple dates a while back.”

  “You do get around,” Murdock said.

  “Life is short,” Julio said. “How’s the lovely Helene?”

  “Peachy,” Murdock said. “You mind if I grill your barkeep?”

  Julio found the number for Ginger Rooney, the bartender at the Inn of the Fathers. Julio had to run—a thief was loose on the ski slopes, and that kind of rumor was bad for the tourist trade. After they hung up, Murdock stared at the wall. The executive spa had a sauna big enough for two and a hot tub with steam rising. The bathroom shower had two nozzles. A bidet sat next to a tall toilet. There was a closet with a brushed-chrome door.

  He opened the door and saw a mini-kitchen—a fridge, a two-burner cook top, a microwave mounted on the wall. A coffee pot and an Italian espresso machine. Murdock used the pot. There was half-and-half in the fridge. Sugar substitutes in a little shot glass. While the coffee pot sputtered, Murdock yawned, shook his head. He was worried about Helene pulling away. How could he get her back?

  Chapter 16

  Fortified by coffee, Murdock phoned the bartender, Ginger Rooney. After the phone rang three times, a woman answered. Murdock identified himself, used Julio’s name. The bartender had a flat voice. Yeah, she remembered Delaplane—good-looking guy, good tipper too. She asked why Murdock was interested. He told her about Findlay, who fell in Sedona. Rooney put that together with Delaplane, who fell in Santa Fe. Murdock asked what she remembered about Delaplane.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He was in the bar. If you were female, you noticed. He was not bad to look at, and the leather jacket told you he had bucks. He was polite, this great smile. He had his eye on this woman at the bar, getting the rush from two different guys. She ran them off, made a place for your guy, like she was sorting out the suitors. Like she was still young enough to do that.”

  “Did they know each other?” Murdock said. “Maybe from before?”

  “They shook hands like strangers,” Rooney said. “He asked what she was drinking. She did not play hard to get.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Late twenties, maybe thirty. In great shape, like she worked out. A very sharp black dress, shoes with medium heels.”

  “Was she a guest at the hotel?”

  “When she came in, her coat was wet from the snow.”

  “Remember the coat?”

  “A black parka,” the bartender said. “You still hanging with that writer, Steinbeck?”

  “Yes,” Murdock said.

  “I’m reading her book; she’s quite a gal.”

  “Yes,” Murdock said, “she is. And you are very observant.”

  “Helps pass the time. I need a siesta before my shift. Anything else?”

  “Was the woman wearing a wig?”

  “Nope. She had black hair, and it was real. Why?”

  “Just a theory I’m working on,” Murdock said. “How long did they stay at the bar?”

  “One drink, then they moved to a sofa. She had him going by then. You know how guys look when they catch a whiff of sex.”

  “Tell me,” Murdock said.

  “They look poised and predatory,” she said. “Ready to spring, eyes narrowed, neck tense, the whole bit. This guy was like that, poised on the edge. She was leaning into him, had her legs crossed. The dress was sexy, like she was asking to be pounced on. Then she gets this phone call and heads out and the air goes out of your guy, like he was a balloon, like she used her needle.”

  “Who else was in the bar?”

  “Two couples,” the bartender said. “One couple, they were celebrating a wedding anniversary—good tips to follow. The other couple, maybe a first date. Then there was a woman who sat alone; she wore a green dress and those tinted eyeglasses.”

  “Why did you notice her?”

  “She was mid-forties, five years ahead of me. Plus, the dress did not go with the hair, if you catch my drift.”

  “Blonde hair?”

  “Like I said.”

  “Could it have been a wig?”

  “Is this your theory thing again?”

  “The dress was wrong, you said.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what color would the hair need to be, to go with the dress?”

  “Red,” the bartender said. “Is there a cash reward for this game?”

  “A hundred,” Murdock said. “You’re doing great. Don’t stop now.”

  “If she was wearing a wig, that would explain the dress.”

  “Keep going,” Murdock said.

  “I wore a wig once, to a party; it looked crazy. I didn’t know why, but people kept staring, people who knew the real me. And then a girlfriend said the dress didn’t go with my wig. What was that all about? So I take off the wig, check the mirror, and bingo, wrong combination, the dress goes with my real hair. Now is that worth two hundred, or what?”

  *****

  Charity was dreaming about snuggling with Karla, like two turned-on lovers, when her phone rang. It was Joey, wanting a report.

  “Where are you?”

  “In bed. Where are you?”

  “Any hitches?” Joey said.

  “Not a single hitch, captain.”

  “How did he look?”

  “Like always, captain. Strong, confident. He still has the teeth … and that head of hair.”

  “The money will be yours tomorrow.”

  “Karla wanted hers last night.”

  “The money will come via FedEx, per usual.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, midday, or after. Get yourself some R&R, soldier. That’s an order.”

  Chapter 17

  Murdock wrote down the bartender’s name, Ginger Rooney, and her address, a PO box in Santa Fe. He was addressing the envelope when Helene came into the room. She asked what he was writing. He showed her the address, told her about the money—a reward for information from the bartender. She asked what he was paying for, her voice was sharp, edgy. He told her about the woman with the wig. Eyes narrowed, she looked down her nose at him, skeptical.

  “Is this the theory you cooked up with Connie Fremont?”

  “It was my theory,” Murdock said. “Connie saw the same photos.”

  “Photos of Walter Findlay, right?”

  “Findlay and two females.”

  “How many photos?” Helene said.

  “Seven,” Murdock said. “Here’s a sample.”

  He pulled a photo from his shirt pocket. Helene studied it, then handed it back.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Findlay’s room.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “I saw yellow ribbons,” Helene said. “That room is a crime scene.”

  “Technically speaking,” Murdock said. “I took the photo before the yellow ribbons went up.”

  “Does Connie know you kept the photo?”

  “I don’t know what Connie knows.”

  “A
fter spending the whole day with her, all that cozy togetherness? She looked at you and saw candy.”

  “We interviewed the bistro people; we checked out the crime scene. You were tied up in your workshop, then you went off with Ackerman, to meet the banker.”

  “Why do you sound so defensive?” Helene said.

  “What’s going on, Steinbeck?” Murdock said.

  “I put Axel to bed,” Helen said. “I’m going back to the room. I have a book to write, a contract, a deadline.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I learned?”

  “Is this the part about sending money to a pretty female bartender in beautiful Santa Fe because she supported your crazy theory about two female killers, a theory that comes from a photo of a playboy on a beach with two bikini babes that you cooked up with Connie? Am I missing something here?”

  “I’m missing you,” Murdock said.

  “Don’t change the subject,” Helene said.

  When Helene left, the room felt empty. Murdock’s coffee was cold. When he went into the living room, he found Bruno on the sofa, arms crossed, eyes closed.

  “Are we experiencing the occasional woman trouble?” Bruno said.

  “How did you know?”

  “Your woman is smart, strong, fit. She has killed. She will have moods.”

  “Is that why you’re not married, the moods?”

  “I was married,” Bruno said. “She ran off with a man who claimed to be a duke.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Florence,” Bruno said. “I was studying art; I wanted to be a sculptor. She was an actress and a singer. So of course, we were doomed from the start.”

  “What’s your theory on who’s after Ackerman?”

  “Someone from the past,” Bruno said. “What about you?”

  “Yeah,” Murdock said. “But which past?”

  “A past with a woman player, perhaps?”

  Murdock took the stairs down to Nine and used his keycard to open Room 919. Helene was hunched over her laptop. Murdock was sweating; Helene’s resistance was a wall. He was drowning, calling for help, where’s the lifesaver?

  She looked up, frowning. “Let me finish this sentence.”

  Murdock drank a glass of water. His head buzzed—too much coffee. His brain felt hot. He was on to something—he didn’t know what. He needed Helene’s intuition.

  “Okay,” Helene said. “What is it?”

  “I need your help,” he said.

  “Can it wait? I’m in the middle of a hot paragraph—like this prose is smokin’.”

  “You took notes on Ackerman, while he was rambling on about his Crew. Giselle was there. We were at the table in the Bell Rock Bistro, yesterday evening.”

  “You want my notes?”

  “If I read them out loud, can you type them up?”

  “I am not your secretary.”

  “I feel something there, something we missed.”

  “Do I hear the clanking sounds of another massive Murdock hunch?”

  “They’re working up to Ackerman,” Murdock said. “The killer wants us to notice.”

  “We knew that yesterday.”

  “The answer is back there,” Murdock said. “I need your brain on this, Steinbeck.”

  “If I do this,” Helene said. “Will you give me two hours? This new book, it’s … I just need to get this work done.”

  She gave him her notebook, a yellow legal pad.

  He read her notes, and she typed them into her laptop.

  As Murdock read, he felt more connected to Ackerman’s past. Ackerman had been in his early forties when he started his fledgling business. He had experience working for the big boys on Wall Street—Goldman, Sachs, J.P. Morgan—when he founded Arc-Angel Equity. His first years were make or break. Ackerman had one thing in common with the boys on the Crew—they were all hungry.

  When they were done, Helene printed out her notes and Murdock went through them, boxing in names, circling places. He made a list; they would have to check with Ackerman. The list went back thirty years. Ackerman’s Crew had visited six towns, had taken over six troubled businesses in the Midwest, dumped into bankruptcy by Arc-Angel Equity.

  Wichita, Kansas—Bellknap’s Farm Machinery

  Topeka, Kansas—Redfearn’s Building Materials

  Lamar, Colorado—Hempstead’s Bridles and Saddles

  Amarillo, Texas—Wilson’s Fine Furniture

  Tulsa, Oklahoma—Howard’s Grain Silos

  Lubbock, Texas—Jerome Trucking, Inc.

  Chapter 18

  They took the list to the penthouse.

  Bruno let them in.

  “If it’s any help,” Bruno said, “I vote for the TFKs—two female killer theory.”

  “Men,” Helene said. “All of you are assholes.”

  They got three mugs of coffee from the kitchen, tapped on Ackerman’s door, heard his voice and went in. Murdock nodded at Helene, who led the way.

  Ackerman was lying in bed, propped up with pillows.

  Helene handed him a mug of coffee.

  He sipped the coffee, took a deep breath. “What?” he said.

  “These five guys on your Crew,” Helene said. “Were they all bankers and CPAs?”

  “Odd question,” Ackerman said. “No.”

  “What were they, what did they do?”

  “Didn’t I already cover that at breakfast?”

  “You told me about Findlay,” Murdock said. “Just when the cops came.”

  “Okay, well, Freddy Delaplane was a salesman. He would charm the managers, the top brass, the owner. He had an MBA from somewhere in Missouri. Milt Coolidge was the CPA. He checked the books, could smell red ink from five miles away. Milt worked with Will Tyler on financing. Will was an investment banker with a degree from Michigan State, I think. Like I said, Walt Findlay had a degree from Cal-Tech, mechanical engineering. He was a loner, a dreamer. Walt made sketches of the business, not only the product, but the assembly line, the workers. His target was the process, what made each business unique. Georgie Hawthorne was our front man, an attorney. He did our agreements. I’ve been calling Georgie, to warn him, but he has not called back. How did I do?”

  Murdock handed the list of towns to Helene. She showed the list to Ackerman. He studied it, glanced at Helene, then refocused on the list.

  “Your list is out of order,” Ackerman said.

  “How so?”

  “Amarillo was our last job out here, not Jerome Trucking. In Amarillo we rescued Wilson’s Fine Furniture, family-owned, the last in the series. It became a turning point for Arc-Angel Equity.”

  “Why is that?” Murdock said.

  “It was our last job,” Ackerman said. “We made the owner rich. After Amarillo, the Crew dissolved. Will Tyler took a job back east. Hawthorne and Coolidge had family troubles that ended in divorce, cost them both a bundle. Walter Findlay took a job in Florida—Walt had a thing for beach-towns. Freddy Delaplane? I heard he went to work for an agricultural consortium. Those were golden days for me, nonstop travel, no rest—I flew, I drove, I rode the train—I was tireless, I was exhausted, I was exhilarated. We completed six jobs in five months.”

  “Were you married during this grand exhilaration?” Helene said.

  “Divorced,” Ackerman said. “I was between wives. Don’t be snide, Helene.”

  “Who was the woman?” Helene said.

  “What woman?”

  “You were between wives,” Helene said. “There had to be a woman.”

  Silence in the room. Murdock said nothing. This was what he needed—Helene at her best, going for the jugular. She moved closer, stood beside the bed. Ackerman rested his coffee mug on his chest.

  “Her name,” Ackerman said, “was Penny Diamond. A Southern girl, Charleston, somewhere like that. Miss Diamond was a prodigy—good with numbers, good with people. A one-woman PR department.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “She was nineteen,” Ackerman said. “At that age, t
hey are all lovely and fresh.”

  “Did you have a relationship?”

  “None of your business,” Ackerman said.

  “This is your life we’re trying to save, Axel.”

  “All right. She threw herself at me. We united in consensual sexual congress. Are you happy now?”

  “Did she work on all six jobs?” Helene said.

  “The last three,” Ackerman said. “Tulsa, Lubbock, Amarillo. Didn’t I already tell you that?”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She broke into my New York office,” Ackerman said.

  “Because you hurt her?”

  “Why do women always use that word, hurt?”

  “Because betrayal hurts,” Helene said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ackerman said. “A madwoman breaks in, smashes my office, steals funds … and you call it betrayal?”

  “How much money?” Helene said.

  “Two hundred thousand,” Ackerman said, “and change.”

  “In today’s dollars?”

  “Half a mil,” he said.

  *****

  Helene stood there, staring down. Men were idiots. Ackerman had his cagey look—can’t catch me, like a little kid playing tag on a school playground. She could feel Murdock off to the side, holding back his questions. As a couple, they were still out of sync. And that feeling of being tilted, off-balance, carried over to their sleuth work. Helene kept thinking about the TFK, Murdock’s crazy theory about two women, working together, killing four guys, then thought of Penny Diamond from Ackerman’s past—was she the key?

  “Was Penny pregnant?” Helene asked.

  “She claimed to be. I saw no external evidence.”

  “Was the baby yours?”

  “She accused me,” Ackerman said.

  “How did you feel about being accused?”

  “Women,” Ackerman said. “They give a little, they take a lot.”

  “What happened to the baby?”

  “What relevance does this have to—”