Murdock Rocks Sedona

by Robert J. Ray

  “Motive for revenge,” Helene said. “Tell him, Murdock.”

  Murdock was sitting down, the chair next to the bedroom wall, looking half-asleep. His voice was speculative, he did his favorite tactic, What-Ifs.

  “Okay,” Murdock said. “What if you got Penny pregnant? What if she was on the run, living off the two-hundred grand? What if she gave up the baby for adoption? What if the baby died? What if she blamed you?”

  “What if she’s after you now?” Helene said.

  “Enough,” Ackerman said. “You have worn me out with your hypotheticals. Go away. And don’t badger me at breakfast.”

  “We need to go there,” Murdock said.

  “Go where?”

  “Amarillo,” Murdock said. “Where it ended.”

  “Murdock likes to dig,” Helene said.

  “Not on my dime,” Ackerman said.

  Chapter 19

  The phone rang, slicing into Karla’s pregnancy dream. Her belly was big with promise, her hands were on the wheel, the stolen pickup rammed into the father of her child, Benny Kelwin—Karla caught him leaving his girlfriend’s house, caught him with the deer-guard, sent him whirling, one hand clutching his favorite necktie, take that you bastard, watching him crash head and shoulders into the windshield of his gold-plated Cadillac.

  The dream scene triggered a flashback, a Casino bar in Las Vegas, sitting across the table from Charity Plum, looking like a witch, pinch-faced and superior, tapping her fingers on the table while Karla stared at the words POLICE REPORT.

  The subject of the report was Kelwin, Benjamin H. In the dream, Karla stared at the word HOMICIDE. Is this report real? Is it a fake? Charity’s mouth opened, the words came from a loudspeaker with big amps. You are wanted for questioning, honey-pie, and then Karla said, I am not going to fuck you, girl, and Charity said, Wanna make some easy money, honey?

  The call was from Mr. Ackerman. He was nervous, edgy, wanted a massage.

  Karla checked the street outside her condo, looking for cops.

  They would come for her in the night, riot gear, storm-trooper boots.

  Karla Kurtz, wanted for questioning.

  She took a deep breath. No cop cars, no surveillance van.

  She showered, shaved her legs. Was the hair growing faster? Was she getting old? She checked her body in the mirror, saw the roll of belly fat, thought of her mother growing stout, sighed. She uniformed up—leggings, shorts, blouse, vest. Ran a comb through her hair, grabbed her rucksack. The air was chilly. Ten minutes to Red Rock Coffee.

  Karla’s bike zoomed along, fresh air in her lungs. Her legs felt strong. She was 28 years old. She had money in the bank. Miss Steinbeck dug her writing. Maybe she had a future as a crime writer.

  The bike tires whispered on the walkway that cut through the golf course. She saw a light burning at Mr. Cypher’s house, Fourteen Fox Hollow, but no red Tahoe. Was he finished with the Breedlove person?

  Karla imagined him in his kitchen—the valley rumor mill said he could really cook. Why wasn’t he married? Her thoughts shifted from cooking to marriage. Would it ever happen for her? She pictured herself in a wedding gown, holding on to Mr. Cypher’s hand, church steps in the sunshine, a shower of rice, the limo that said Just Married.

  The big Escalade roared out of nowhere. The village speed limit was 25; the Caddy was doing 55, 60. Driveway on her right, Karla turned in, felt the draft from the Caddy. She saw a Texas license plate, she saw a face in the passenger window, maybe a woman’s. She hung in the shadows, shaking, the shock of almost dying, a hit-and-run, a puddle on the road, an echo of her dream. A second vehicle slid past, a Mercedes with D.C. diplomatic plates—KV, Saudi Arabia.

  She phoned Ackerman from work. He answered with a growl; she was on a six-month contract. He thought he owned her forever. They made a date for later in the afternoon.

  *****

  Helene was back at her laptop, feeling edgy.

  Murdock was making fresh coffee.

  “Why Amarillo?”

  “Clues,” he said.

  “What kind of clues?”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s a hunch.”

  “What hunch?” she said.

  “Because Ackerman’s hiding something.”

  “He’s old,” Helene said. “He forgets. Maybe he just can’t remember.”

  “He’s a Chinese puzzle box,” Murdock said.

  “If you get there, what’s your first move?”

  “Gotta go there to find out,” he said.

  She watched him fix her coffee, dash of cream, no sugar. She had two thoughts. One, she had known him forever; they were joined at the hip. Two, she didn’t know him. He was a total stranger; she would never know him.

  She took a first sip. She wanted to talk about what was going on between them—this wall, this eerie detached feeling where she felt trapped. It would take a while, the talking. Murdock was knee deep in the Ackerman job, doing her work, her thinking. She felt sad for him. She was also nervous about competition from Connie Fremont, the new female—and edgy about Olivia Olivera, the old flame. Helene had agreed to the Ackerman gig, hoping it would bind them close. Instead, it was pushing them apart. She needed time to think.

  “Why don’t you go,” she said.

  “Alone?” he said.

  “I’ve got this workshop,” she said. “I can keep an eye on Axel.”

  “We’re a team,” he said. “I need your intuition.”

  “It’s only half a day,” she said. “If you left this morning, you’d be back for dinner.”

  “You asking for one of those trial separation things?”

  “I’m not feeling what you’re feeling … about the case.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  He was sitting on the bed, staring into space. Helene touched his arm. “Murdock, I really need to work.”

  He gave her a look. He said nothing. She watched him go out the door. Her heart was beating fast.

  *****

  When he got off the phone with Karla, Ackerman saw Death—a skull face, yellow teeth, a tattered gray garment. The bony hands held a scythe. Death came at him fast from the window, forcing him out of the black leather chair. He went to the kitchen, Death did not follow. He dumped his coffee into the sink, took a deep breath, sat down.

  The kitchen had been remodeled first. They knocked out walls, installed more outlets, cabinets by Giselle Roux—it was her kitchen, and now he could feel her withdrawing. Thirteen years was enough. She hadn’t told him, but this feeling of being abandoned had to come from somewhere. Who could replace Giselle? Twelve years of solidarity and balance, gone. Maybe he should have proposed.

  He checked the time—7:40. He had tennis at ten, doubles with faithful Teri Breedlove. His legs were cramping, his brain felt dead, he feared death. He dressed in shorts, an old T-shirt, his battered cable knit sweater. Bruno was napping. Delaplane was dead. Time for breakfast. Ackerman took the stairs.

  *****

  Ackerman entered the Bell Rock Bistro. He felt the man pills working. Josefina got him seated, brought his coffee—he drank a blend of French roast and decaf. He ordered melon, bacon, a muffin. He opened the screen on the smartphone. Time for the test. “Smartphone,” Ackerman said, “who killed Delaplane?”

  He saw Death on horseback, riding at him. He pressed a button, Death faded away. Easy enough.

  Why had Murdock locked on Amarillo? What went on inside the mind of a sleuth? Ackerman had dim memories of the little city, just another railroad town in the Texas Panhandle, a hub city for wheat and oil and cattle. His time there had been short, one afternoon, one night. He didn’t remember having sex; Penny Diamond had been on a tear. Honest Joe Wilson was rich and depressed, nothing to do there. The Crew was eager to move on; there were jobs waiting.

  There were so many small towns back then—Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas. Towns with elm trees, red brick streets, a church on every corner, lawns. They all lusted for growth, for the
big-time. In every town, there were a dozen firms crying out to be saved—businesses that would not survive without the surgical expertise of Arc-Angel Equity.

  Ackerman flashed on Honest Joe Wilson, the rumpled church-meeting suit, the strong hands, the solid handshake. Wilson was an artist—his furniture had style—but the fellow was a fool. He hired his friends, bought too much equipment, made payroll with borrowed funds. Ackerman remembered the plant—a gaggle of wind-battered Quonset huts on the edge of town. The makeshift showroom was an afterthought.

  Inside Wilson’s Fine Furniture there were lathes and wood-presses, that sawdust smell. Ackerman remembered the town banker, a jowly man in an ill-fitting suit. He had forgotten the banker’s name.

  Josefina delivered Ackerman’s breakfast. He was stabbing a piece of melon when Murdock walked in and sat down without asking permission. Ackerman liked that in a man, just enough push.

  Murdock leaned toward Ackerman, got right into Ackerman’s face.“How much time did you spend in Amarillo, total?”

  “A night and a day. Why?”

  “That’s why I need your plane.”

  “Do you ever have doubts, Murdock?”

  “What happened to Wilson?”

  “He died.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know. Where are you going with these questions?”

  “I want to know how Wilson died.”

  “When you’re dead, you—”

  “What if he died by falling?”

  “Now you’re talking crazy.”

  Ackerman turned his head. A flicker of movement in the doorway and Teri Breedlove was walking this way—tanned legs, hair in a ponytail. Teri was life; she drove Death away. Teri shook hands with Murdock. The time was quarter to ten, just enough for a bathroom stop and a warm-up hit.

  Teri took the chair next to Ackerman, asked was he okay? He lied, told her he was fine, took another bite of melon. Murdock sat there, anger in his face.

  “What’s up, dudes?” Teri said.

  “Murdock was just leaving.”

  “You okay, Axel?” Terry said.

  “You already asked that.”

  “You look pale, partner, just like yesterday, did somebody else die or what?”

  Ackerman stood up. He grabbed his tennis bag, headed for the doorway that led to the courts. His stomach did flip-flops. He felt queasy, he stumbled, caught himself. Behind him, Ackerman heard Murdock talking to Teri. He heard the words airplane and Amarillo. He heard life and death. He pushed through the door, leaving everything behind—Teri, Murdock, Findlay, Delaplane, Tyler, Coolidge, Death on a horse. Ackerman needed sun, tennis, sex … something.

  Chapter 20

  On his way to Vortex Bank, Murdock made a reservation, Phoenix to Amarillo, tomorrow, ten o’clock. There was nothing earlier. He paid with his credit card, one aisle seat.

  The wrought-iron statue of a vortex that guarded the entrance to the bank cast a heavy shadow across the patio. It was flared wide at the top, narrow at the base, rotating on a pedestal of black stone, counter-clockwise.

  A woman wearing a name badge that said MARTA escorted Murdock to a glass-walled office. Cypher got up to shake hands. He fit Helene’s description—medium size, short haircut, wearing a khaki suit and brown Cordovans.

  Despite the handshake, despite the khaki suit, despite the invitation to sit, Murdock noted that Cypher was edgy. A man under pressure, brittle as glass, trapped in a glass-walled office. He sat down. Murdock sat down. Cypher coughed, hand over his mouth. Then he left his chair and stood at the giant window, his hands jammed into pockets. Cypher’s shoulders were hunched, sharp blades inside the khaki jacket. Helene had mentioned his copy of the Odyssey. Today, it sat on the window shelf.

  Outside in the parking lot, Murdock counted four vehicles—two pickups, one sedan, one SUV—and a bright yellow bicycle. Did Cypher bike to work? What kind of vehicle did he drive?

  “I heard about the death in Santa Fe,” Cypher said. “I met the fellow last year. I was hoping you’d tell Mr. Ackerman to call off the purchase.”

  “Won’t your bank lose a chunk of money?”

  “Money for human life,” Cypher said. “It’s a bad bargain. I hold myself partly to blame. Will you relay my message? Mr. Ackerman won’t return my calls.”

  “Sure,” Murdock said. “I thought it was your idea, buying the hotel.”

  Cypher sat down—his face was angles and planes—and picked up the red phone. There were two more on his desk, one black, one white, cables snaking into a hole in the desk. He dialed a number, said he did not want any interruptions, and jammed the phone back in its cradle.

  “I Googled you—hope you don’t mind. You were Army, right? First in Special Forces, then the MPs. Mind filling me in?”

  “They sent me to Viet Nam after Saigon fell,” Murdock said. “My team rescued guys from those MIA prison camps.”

  “That was not on Google,” Cypher said. “Were you a captain then?”

  “NCO,” Murdock said. “We worked with the CIA. I was young and tireless … I loved it.”

  “I served in the Hindu Kush,” Cypher said, “where I lost a platoon.”

  “Ouch,” Murdock said. “What happened?”

  “It was my last tour of duty in Afghanistan. The platoon had a run of bad luck. When their CO got killed, I replaced him. Up to then, my record was spotless. I was on the way to bird-colonel. It was a night raid, a village elder, your basic ex-fil. One of my guys stumbled, made noise. We got ambushed. It was ugly.”

  “That’s war,” Murdock said. “Not your fault.”

  “That little night raid shredded my future,” Cypher said. “Before that, I felt at home in the Army. I felt useful, like I was doing important work, saving the world from oblivion. I felt wanted. I saw myself as a career soldier. That all changed in thirty seconds. But enough about me. So, you said military police, right?”

  “My CO said I had an instinct for homicide.”

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mr. Tyler and Mr. Coolidge—their deaths were ruled accidental. I haven’t heard any official report on Mr. Findlay, but I was wondering about Santa Fe.”

  “It looked like a fall.”

  “You were there?”

  “I know a guy in the New Mexico State Police.”

  “I envy you your contacts,” Cypher said. “Mine are all financial, bankers, CPAs. I think I’m in the wrong business.”

  “What business would you rather be in?”

  “College professor,” Cypher said. “I always enjoyed school. I coveted the teacher’s pet appellation. I have worked toward the PhD. Sorry, I’m rambling. I suppose it’s because I’m enjoying our talk. Do you feel like we’ve met before?”

  “Yeah,” Murdock said, “I do.”

  “Like we had served together, in combat?”

  “Yeah,” Murdock said, “like that.”

  “Sorry for all the bleating,” Cypher said. “This is a work day and you’re here as the second holder on Miss Steinbeck’s brand new account. There are forms to sign.”

  Murdock watched Cypher switch gears, from wistful soldier to helpful banker. His face changed; precise movements cloaked his emotion. With great care, he opened a desk drawer, extracted a folder of bank forms. He passed Murdock a fancy fountain pen, green with gold flecks. There were little yellow sticky tabs on the forms—sign here, initial here. While Murdock signed the forms, Cypher explained the bank philosophy: “I came here to Vortex Bank because they were into customer service. In the age of smartphones and electronic cash, Vortex Bank has a heart. All the employees are expected to know the names of every bank customer.”

  Murdock returned the signed forms. Cypher made a call on the white phone. Marta the manager came through the glass door. Her smile was wistful; her body language said she was soft on Cypher. He didn’t seem to notice. Marta left with the forms. When the door closed, Murdock turned to Cypher.

  “Why
do you blame yourself?”

  “I knew these men,” Cypher said. “They met in this very office. I shook their hands.”

  “Did you know Findlay?”

  “Briefly. It was Saturday morning. He came for advice.”

  “What kind of advice?”

  “He was interested in meeting women,” Cypher said. “He asked me for tips.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I sent him to Raul, at the desk, Sedona Landing. I’m not much of a night owl.” Cypher checked his watch, calmer now. He said, “I could use some air, do you have time for coffee?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Let’s walk to the Red Rock. A lovely day, a new comrade. Let me find my sunglasses …. Oh dear, we’ve got company.”

  Murdock saw movement at the glass door.

  A flash of teeth, pale lipstick, blonde hair like wheat.

  The door opened, blocked by a woman brandishing papers. She was medium-sized, early forties, with crazy eyes. The teeth were straight out of a toothpaste whitening ad. Her dress was one size too small.

  Her hand was out. Her voice was loud.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Betty Sue Breedlove, and you must be the famous detective.”

  Her hand was hot, the palm moist. The glass door opened again. Teri Breedlove stood there, looking sheepish.

  “Mom,” she said. “Let go of Mr. Murdock. He’s been spoken for.”

  The woman handed Murdock a business card. Betty Sue Breedlove, Valley Patio Homes. Her logo was a vortex. An arrow led from the vortex to a cute model home next to a pond.

  Murdock waited outside with Teri, watching the action through the wall of glass. Teri was still dressed for tennis—shorts and T-shirt, a white sweater thrown across her shoulders.

  They watched Betty Sue drop papers onto Cypher’s desk. The papers were in sets, stapled.

  “Loan apps,” Teri said.

  “Your mom looks possessive,” Murdock said.

  “They dated,” Teri said. “Jeremy’s real popular with the ladies. Mom’s pretty, but she’s a terrible cook. Not Jeremy. He digs good food, takes cooking classes. She made a big mistake, targeting his taste buds.”