Murdock Rocks Sedona

by Robert J. Ray

  Through the glass wall, they saw Betty Sue drop an object onto the desk. It looked like a replica of a vortex. Teri explained: her mom led tourists on vortex tours to add to her customer base. The tiny vortex was an amulet, Teri said, with the power to get Jeremy back. Murdock asked how it worked.

  “That little vortex is female,” Teri said. “It spins counter-clockwise. Jeremy is a male—guys spin clockwise. If he accepts the vortex, he’ll go into reverse.”

  Inside the glass office, Betty Sue leaned across the table, her hand on the vortex statue. Cypher stood up, ending the meeting. He did not touch the vortex amulet. Betty Sue headed for the door. Mission failure.

  “Does she think it will work?”

  “A girl’s gotta believe in something,” Teri said. “Me, I’ve got my ring.”

  “Oh?”

  Teri showed Murdock the Promise Ring. It hung from a silver neck chain. “Jesus is my guy,” Teri said. “He saves my ass from whatever.”

  The glass door opened and Betty Sue whirled through, scowling. Her eyes were glazed, her shoulders slumped. She stood there for maybe 30 seconds, staring back through the glass wall, biting her lip. Cypher was on the telephone, heels on his desk, his back turned, facing the window that looked out onto the parking lot. The yellow bicycle caught Murdock’s eye. The Village was perfect for bikers.

  Betty Sue wrote on a business card, handed it to Murdock. She was having a party, she wanted Murdock to bring his writer friend, what’s her name, Steinbeck. Everyone was talking about her book. The party was Friday. Betty Sue shook Murdock’s hand. The body heat was less intense; her fierce eyes were cooling down.

  Cypher waited for the women to leave; then he came out, looking furtive.

  Chapter 21

  They walked to Red Rock Coffee. Cypher was quiet. Murdock could feel him thinking. The sun was warm on Murdock’s shoulders, great weather for November. Cypher was smaller, but he matched Murdock’s stride—two soldiers marching. Murdock asked where Cypher lived, did he always bike to work? What kind of vehicle did best in rural Arizona?

  “I drive a Subaru,” Cypher said. “May I explain … about that harpy?”

  “Not necessary,” Murdock said.

  “After a couple of dates,” Cypher said, “she invited me for dinner. The food was poisonous, an omen. She doesn’t bike or play tennis. Sex is her exercise. She has this move, calls it her Vortical Swirl. She’s an energetic woman, voracious even. I broke it off. She has a different agenda. I will never understand the female sex. Whatever you’re having, it’s my treat, banker to new customer—a new comrade-in-arms.”

  Inside Red Rock Coffee, they ordered two tall Americanos, double shots, room for cream. The barista was dark, slender, athletic. Her name tag said Karla. Her body language said she wanted attention from Cypher, who didn’t seem to notice. Murdock had seen her before, maybe at Sedona Landing.

  Red Rock Coffee was crowded and noisy. They took their coffees outside; no wind here, no downhill breeze. “What were you chatting about with Teri Breedlove?”

  “She was telling me about the vortexes,” Murdock said. “The males whirl one way, females whirl the other.”

  “Teri’s quite bright,” Cypher said. “Latching onto Mr. Ackerman was a stroke of genius.”

  “He pays her, right?”

  “Oh, yes. She keeps the cash in a box at our bank. Teri’s a saver; the mother’s a spender. Did she recruit you for her Friday soiree?”

  “Yes. Will you be there?”

  “I have other plans for Friday,” Cypher said. “Did the girl regale you with her career plans? From a Criminal Justice degree to CSI, capped by law school?”

  “She’s a Millennial,” Murdock said. “They know how to plan.”

  “She’s sweet,” Cypher said. “May she not follow the mother into harpy-dom.”

  Murdock laughed, switched subjects.

  “How did you meet Ackerman?”

  “Because of this hotel sale,” Cypher said. “The owners, a brother and sister, wanted to sell. They came to me for advice.”

  “You put the deal together?”

  “As I recall, Mr. William Tyler made the initial moves.”

  “You knew Tyler?”

  “He was an avid biker. We met on the Chicken Point, a local bike trail. He had a flat tire; I helped him out.”

  “When did Tyler come up with the idea of buying the hotel?”

  “He mentioned it to me over drinks. He was in town alone. We chatted about the nature of change; he had a philosopher’s way about him. A very thoughtful man, a straight arrow … and now he’s gone.”

  “Why did the owners want to sell?”

  “They were nervous about the cost of maintenance. Every repair bill and they phoned to complain. Mr. Tyler gathered some old friends, Mr. Ackerman among them. But I still blame myself.”

  “So what happened first?” Murdock said. “The need to sell or the offer to buy?”

  “From my purview,” Cypher said, “events seemed wondrously fortuitous—the buyers, the sellers. It was charming, old friends getting together for one last venture, like a veritable Knights Templar brotherhood, old comrades home from the Crusades. I stood apart, a facilitator, a keeper of records. Now Mr. Tyler is dead, and the others, and I feel responsible.”

  “Like losing a platoon?”

  “Exactly. How did you know?”

  “These dead guys are not your fault,” Murdock said.

  “Thank you,” Cypher said. “Coming from you, that helps.”

  Cypher’s smartphone rang. He got up from the table, moved away. His voice was crisp, and the message was short. He was needed at the bank. Before he left, Cypher urged Murdock to speak to Ackerman about not buying Sedona Landing.

  After Cypher left, Murdock pulled out the photo of Findlay and the two babes on the beach. How much money would it take to motivate two women to kill four old men?

  Chapter 22

  The money for the Delaplane kill reached Charity Plum on Tuesday morning. She was at the office, sipping cold coffee, snatching a moment to run photos of her baby. His name was Howard. He was married, one child, ran his own little business, landscape gardening, in Mt. Pleasant, east of Charleston. The TV was on, but there was no news from Santa Fe. Outside her window, tumbleweeds bounced in the wind. Hard to believe her baby Howard was 30 years old.

  The money arrived in a FedEx envelope. Charity signed, made the driver wait. She packed Karla’s half in a new envelope, pre-addressed to a Sedona mailbox. The driver asked her to dinner. His name was Fred. He was a man, he wanted to fornicate with her, his marriage was on the rocks.

  Charity sent him away. No man thought fornication was a sin.

  The FedEx money triggered a flashback, months ago, sitting in this same ugly office, when her computer bonged—email from Joey. He was in town. He wanted to see her, how about lunch? Charity had trouble breathing. How had Joey found her?

  What did he want?

  Minutes before noon, Joey appeared, all grown up now, in town for a banker’s convention. He wore a sharp suit, that same serious look, let me take you to lunch.

  He took her to Gilley’s, overlooking the Strip. Ordered her a double martini, how did he know?

  Joey had a new face. Charity asked why.

  My plastic visage, Joey had said. He was playing hero in Kabul when he ran into an IED. Joey had been a sniper. He brought out his cellphone, opened a screen. “Guess who?” he said.

  Charity was shocked. She stared at shots of her only child, baby Howard, given up for adoption because she was on the run. “Flip through,” Joey said. “Like this.”

  Photo One—there was Howard in his truck, Schumacher’s Gardens.

  Photo Two—there was Howard’s little family—Howard, his wife, his baby.

  Photo Three—there was Howard in an ambulance, getting his head bandaged, while a cop jotted notes. A caption read: Driver At Fault.

  Photo Four—there was Howard’s poor truck, its front end buried i
n a yellow school bus. A caption read: Accidents Happen.

  Joey described how he had shot Howard’s truck tire, making the truck skid into the school bus. Joey was crazy but cool. What was he doing with the photos?

  Joey brought out the list. It had five names: Tyler, Coolidge, Findlay, Delaplane, Hawthorne. Joey wanted them dead. Did she remember how they had treated her?

  Charity remembered them, no worries there. They were macho bastards, jazzed on testosterone. They had ruined her life. Beside each name was a number. $40K for Tyler, $45K for Coolidge, prices ratcheting up with each kill. Joey smiled. She smelled revenge. Joey’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

  Charity’s child was 30 years old. If she wanted him to celebrate his 31st birthday, she better say yes to the kills.

  She was seeing Joey’s nasty streak: he was using the photos of Howard as part of a motivation package: money, revenge, blackmail.

  She was too afraid to ask the question: did Joey know that Ackerman was Howard’s daddy?

  Chapter 23

  Gerry Ramsay’s reputation was at stake.

  He was broke.

  His debts kept piling up.

  The courts had his money tied in knots.

  His oldest boy was in prison.

  His youngest boy was in psychiatric counseling … after being brain-washed in Taos.

  Gerry piled the Arabs into the Escalade.

  His wife stood in the doorway of the vacation rental.

  She was turning into a real bitch.

  It had to be the money.

  He drove the sinuous streets of the Village, then parked in the lot at Sedona Landing.

  Gerry was getting paid 50 grand for babysitting four Arabs. The main Arab was Prince Kemal. He was mid-20s, the youngest son of an oil sheik. The prince wore a new Stetson, a fringed leather vest, and snakeskin boots, pale green. The uncle of the prince was Rashid, brother to the oil sheik, with a PhD in economics from some hot-shit school in London. He told Gerry to call him Uncle.

  The two bodyguards were chunky. One was Hassan, one was Hussein. They had already knocked off one case of Red Bull. The Arabs piled out. The uncle came last, he was on the phone with Senator Hiram Fish. He spoke like a Brit, upper-class snotty.

  Gerry made a phone of his thumb and little finger. He wanted a word with the senator. The uncle shook his head. The prince pointed to a girl on the tennis court. Blonde, tanned, athletic, smooth moves on the court. The prince pointed at her, did his John Wayne imitation.

  “That one, Pilgrim. Connect me up.”

  Gerry nodded. No worries, Prince.

  They took a curved sidewalk to the lobby.

  Gerry spoke to the guy at the desk. They were here for the walk-through. The desk guy was not happy. His name badge said Raul. He got on the phone.

  The security guys, Hassan and Hussein, stood at the view window that looked down on the pool, pointing and grunting.

  A frosty redheaded woman introduced herself to Gerry.

  Her name was Giselle Roux. She had instructions from the banker to give them a tour. The prince kissed her hand. His eyes lit up, his teeth gleamed. The prince walked beside her, jabbering in French.

  She led them through the hotel.

  Lobby, restaurant, Bell Rock Bistro, pool, tennis courts—the blonde had left—beauty parlor, the Member’s Spa. There were three elevators—two for the hotel, one for the penthouse, worked on a keycard.

  They took a regular elevator to One. She let them into Room 100, a two-bedroom suite. She led them up the stairs to Two. Uncle asked to see Five.

  Gerry said, “This is a hotel, Uncle. Same all the way up.”

  “The senator wishes to have a report, eyes-on, as you Americans say.”

  “If the senator says jump,” Gerry said, “you say how high. That right?”

  “You Americans,” Uncle said.

  On Five, Uncle checked out all the rooms.

  He muttered in Arabic. One guard took photos; the other one took notes. The uncle asked to see the penthouse. Giselle Roux pulled out her cell, turned her back for the call. Gerry heard her murmuring. She finished the call, told Uncle it was impossible.

  Gerry asked for the number; he knew Ackerman from way back. Giselle made a second call, handed the phone to Gerry.

  “Hey, Mr. Ackerman, this is Gerald Ramsay. I met you thirty years ago, you might not remember—I was a great admirer back then of Arc-Angel equity—and I’m here in your town with some Arab friends. I made a promise they could have a quick look at your—”

  “Arabs?” Ackerman said.

  “Arab friends,” Gerry said.

  “No fucking way,” Ackerman said.

  The phone went dead, Gerry hit redial, got a busy signal. They followed Giselle Roux to the ninth floor. At the end of the hallway, Gerry saw the yellow crime scene ribbons.

  “What’s this?” Uncle said.

  “A guest died,” she said.

  “Foul play?” Uncle said. “Here in the hotel?”

  “You’d better ask the police.”

  “Mr. Ramsay, please investigate. Thank you so much.”

  When the elevator door opened onto the lobby, Gerry saw the blonde from the tennis courts. She was coming out of the penthouse elevator. “That one,” the prince said, and introduced himself, kissing her hand.

  “Whoa,” the blonde said.

  Giselle Roux introduced the blonde. Her name was Teri something. The Prince invited her for a drink.

  “Prince of what?” the blonde said.

  The Prince said something in Arabic. He hauled out his wallet. The blonde giggled. He talked bullshit; she fucking liked it.

  “Well, Mister Prince,” the blonde said. “If you have some time later, I barista at Red Rock Coffee, so maybe you could drop by?”

  “I will do it,” he said. “The Red Rock Coffee.”

  She took her hand back.

  Took her time walking away—long legs, tight ass, Arizona dream girl.

  Beside Gerry, Yancey Latimer said, “Maybe the prince will bring her to Uncle’s little party.”

  “You see the ring?”

  “What fucking ring?”

  “It’s a Promise Ring,” Gerry said. “My kid dated a babe who wore one. He never got to first base.”

  “Promise to who?” Latimer said.

  “To Jesus,” Gerry said. “And the correct pronoun would be whom.”

  “Christ, Ramsay” Latimer said. “If all the world was on fire, you’d bring out your fucking grammar book.”

  Back at Ten Foxglove Lane, the uncle said, “You told me you were friends with the old Jew.”

  “I do fucking know him.”

  “Not well enough, it seems.”

  “Ease up, Uncle. Your nephew connected with a hot babe.”

  “You promised me a view of the penthouse.”

  “You saw what happened, Christ.”

  “I saw an ineffective plan,” Uncle said. “Crafted by a banker without a bank. What time does the entertainment arrive?”

  “When they get here,” Gerry said.

  “Then you have time to check with the police … about those yellow ribbons.”

  Chapter 24

  Vortex Bank closed at five, but Cypher stayed in the office, catching up. It was still twilight when he locked the big outer door. A vehicle pulled into the lot—Teri Breedlove in her mother’s Tahoe. A second vehicle rumbled from the street. Teri’s voice sounded frightened.

  “I need help, Jeremy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The pickup behind me,” she said. “It’s Tito Trujillo.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I was hitting some balls with his brother Javier—the kid could be good—when Tito invited me for a beer. I said no, he came on real strong. He followed me here.”

  Cypher didn’t like it. He had a yen for this girl. She was luscious, the proverbial girl next door. He didn’t want to confront Tito Trujillo; the fellow had a reputation. The Tahoe had a bike rack
. Cypher stowed the yellow bike, climbed in next to Teri, and smelled marijuana smoke. A female at the wheel made him edgy.

  She grabbed his wrist. “I could kiss you,” she said.

  It was a mile to Cypher’s home on Fox Hollow. The pickup left them after two blocks. Teri sighed, said, “Thank you so much, Jeremy, you’re a sweetheart.” On the drive to his house, she chattered on about tennis. They had lost their doubles today because Axel was off his game. Some guy fell down some stairs in Santa Fe, she didn’t know who. She had met an Arab prince at the hotel. Babble-babble.

  She took a corner going forty-five, and the big car tilted. She was going too fast for the Village streets. Cypher flashed on another big overpowered car, another teenage driver with golden hair, another female who drove too fast. Christmas, 30 years ago.

  Images flickered in his memory: snow, Christmas Eve, no traffic on the icy brick streets of his small town.

  Cypher had been fifteen. He sat in the death seat, knew he was going to die.

  The girl next door was going to kill him.

  Her name was Alyson Smith. She was going way over the speed limit, driving like a banshee. Christmas Eve is so boring, let’s get high! She tucked his hand between her legs, and he felt the muscles squeezing. She was insane. He loved her.

  Curve coming up, Alyson was braking, turning the wheel, the big car spinning, touch me now!

  Two rotations. The car slowed, spun to a stop. She was panting, nodding. She dislodged his hand—and then an ambulance streaked past, lights flashing, and Alyson followed, more excitement on Christmas Eve.

  The flashing lights stopped at Wolflin School.

  A fire truck, a police car, men in white pushing a gurney toward something dark on the ground.

  Cypher remembered his feet pounding on frozen playground dirt.

  He remembered colored Christmas lights, cozy houses.

  A voice said: “Your dad died from falling, son.”

  He telephoned Mother from the hospital.

  She was attending a church party hosted by Brother O’Brien. Mother adored parties; her voice turned sharp when Cypher stammered the news.