Father’s death notice did not make Page One. LOCAL BUSINESSMAN DIES FROM FALLING, pushed way back to page fourteen.
Chapter 25
They were seated at Ackerman’s window table in the Bell Rock Bistro when Helene saw Marina Ramsay, looking hesitant in a pale purple track suit. Murdock was eating. The soup was beef barley, aromatic. His face was weary; he was on his third glass of red wine. He saw Helene looking past him, so he turned around, a quick glance, and went back to his soup.
“Who is that beautiful woman?” Ackerman said. “Why is she looking this way?”
“Her name is Marina Ramsay,” Helene said.
“You know her?”
“We met up with her in Taos,” Murdock said.
“Ramsay?” Ackerman said. “Isn’t that the name of the craphead banker who brought those goddamned Arabs?”
“She’s here,” Murdock said. “You can ask her yourself.”
Marina Ramsay stood in the doorway, scanning the room, an actress waiting for her cue. Giselle Roux appeared, Marina nodded, and they walked down the steps into the Bell Rock Bistro. Marina had thinned down since Taos. Her face had the high color that came from recent exercise and her black hair was tousled. She looked restless, edgy, maybe even afraid.
As she came toward the table, people turned to watch. Marina had been a Miss Universe runner-up when she was eighteen. That was twenty years ago, but she still knew how to make an entrance.
Ackerman stood up. Murdock stayed seated. Helene stood up and held out her hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Marina said. “But I came to warn you …. Are you Mr. Ackerman?”
They shook hands. Ackerman held a chair for her. She gave him her watery-eyed, pleading look. Marina said thank you and ordered hot coffee and a splash of cognac. When the coffee arrived, she dumped in two packets of sweetener. When she stirred, her hand shook. Ackerman said, “Warn us about what?”
“So sorry to barge in,” she said “My house is all Arabs and burnt meat. My husband is drinking—he had a loss of face today. He promised them a tour of the penthouse. When the tour was refused, my husband turned on me. It was my fault, he said, for not coming along. He was ready to sell me, he said. Auction me off to the Arabs. I ran away. The streets are so confusing, with their curves. I saw the lights, I came here.”
“Where is your house, ma’am?”
“It’s not mine,” Marina said. “It’s a rental, borrowed from some friends. Where is it? Off there in the dark somewhere on another curved street, called Something Fox or Fox Something. Your street names here sound so much alike. I can’t go back. I came here, to this wonderful old hotel. I was feeling desperate when I saw Miss Steinbeck’s name, the workshop. Giselle brought me here. While I’m confessing, I would like to apologize to you people for what happened in Taos. You must understand my position. I was a mother frightened for her children, and well, we are still feeling the aftershocks, and I still have two sons in dire jeopardy and—”
Ackerman stopped her, his hand on her arm. She thanked him. Then, playing the white knight, he offered her a spare bedroom in his penthouse. She argued with him, but her words were a sham, flirty and ultra-feminine. Marina was the lost princess in need of sanctuary and her presence gave Ackerman a chance to play lord of the manor.
Helene looked at Murdock, who had gone back to his soup. Ackerman waved at the waitress; Marina ordered scrambled eggs and toast. Her coffee was gone, would she like some wine? Oh, yes. White or red? Whatever Ackerman was drinking was good enough for Marina. The waitress brought the wine.
“So,” Ackerman said. “You’re trapped in there with four Arabs, one husband. Anyone else?”
“Just a friend from Dallas. His name is Latimer.”
“Benjamin Latimer?”
“Yancey,” she said. “His son.”
“Another goddamn banker?” Ackerman said.
“Yes. And having quite a run of bad luck. We all are.”
“What I heard,” Ackerman said. “The Arabs want to turn this old hotel into a casino?”
“The sheikh’s son, Kemal, has this thing about the Old West, cowboys, gunfighters. He keeps watching old Western movies. His hero is Shane.”
“Four Arabs and two Dallas bankers,” Ackerman said. “How are they getting along?”
“The man called Uncle simmers with anger,” she said.
“We can check on him for you,” Ackerman said.
“Oh,” Marina said. “I hate being a bother.”
Chapter 26
Helene heard Ackerman use the word, We. It was not an accident, a slip of the tongue. He looked at Helene, then he looked at Murdock, who was reaching for a hunk of bread. There was silence around the table. Murdock glanced at Helene.
She and Murdock were part of Ackerman’s royal We, his hired help, his in-house detective-servants. They had started at five thousand for a single day. Delaplane’s death in Santa Fe had landed them a two-day contract, at twenty thousand. From Ackerman’s point of view, if they took the money, they were there to serve.
Murdock took his time spreading the butter. The bread was whole wheat, with pumpkin seeds. Helene watched Ackerman lift the wine bottle. Instead of topping of his own glass, he filled Marina’s.
Her scrambled eggs arrived. She took one bite, exhaled, looked around the table, and said thank you. Helene saw big changes in this nasty wife of a nasty Dallas banker. When she first came in, Marina’s eyes had been frightened. With each bite of food she looked better, a woman with real bounce-back. Murdock finished his soup and stood up. He was still pinch-hitting for Manolo Quintana, doing hotel security.
“Where are you going?” Ackerman said.
“Gotta do my rounds,” Murdock said. “Check those old doorknobs.”
“I need you to check on that den of Arabs.”
“When the hotel is secure,” Murdock said. “Meanwhile, boss, stay off the stairs.”
Ackerman grinned, shook his head. He liked Murdock, liked people who stood up to him. Ackerman asked Giselle for the keys to the Humvee. They were in her office.
“Okay,” Ackerman said. “When Sherlock is done doing his rounds, you people take that Humvee for a test drive. Before you come back here, check on Mrs. Ramsay’s husband.”
Helene said okay. She liked cars. She’d been wanting to drive the Humvee, see how it handled. It was cold outside, and she needed her parka.
As she left the table, Helene heard Ackerman snapping orders at Giselle. He wanted her to replace Murdock on this silly hotel security substitution thing. He wanted a penthouse keycard for Marina Ramsay. He wanted Mrs. Ramsay to have guestroom four. Helene heard Giselle replying—she was busy, the maids were off duty, why didn’t Ackerman make the bed himself? Then Helene heard Marina Ramsay saying, not a problem, she herself was capable of making up a bed.
Helene loved driving the Humvee. She zoomed along Highway 179—no traffic at this hour—then hopped onto the interstate, roaring south down the freeway toward Phoenix. At 97 miles per hour, the Hummer gave a little shimmy, got worse at 100, gone at 110. She found a place to make a U-turn.
“Feel better now?”
“I want one.”
“Couple weeks working for Ackerman, you can buy one of these with cash.”
“He’s treating you like a son, you know.”
“He’s one sad old dude,” Murdock said. “Let’s check the scene of the crime. Maybe catch your pal Gerry in bed with a hooker.”
“Ackerman put Marina into guest room four,” Helene said.
“She’s got the instincts of an alley cat in heat.”
“She was trying to be pleasant,” Helene said.
“She’s in a tight spot,” Murdock said.
“Did you ask Cypher about the Arabs?” Helene said.
“I was about to when he took a phone call.”
“Maybe when we check on Gerry Ramsay, we can ask him.”
“I forgot my rubber hose,” Mu
rdock said.
“You can offer to give him back those boots.”
“No way,” Murdock said. “Those are good boots. I earned them.”
“What’s that street again?”
“Ten Foxglove Lane,” Murdock said. “It’s between Fox Hollow and Fox Glen.”
“It’s like Fairyland,” Helene said. “Living in this village, these soft street names.”
*****
Marina Ramsay yawned as she tucked in the top sheet. She was in Guestroom Four, the inner circle, with Bruno, Ackerman’s manservant. She felt safe here; she felt opportunity. She was fed up with Gerry.
“I hope I’m not running anyone out of bed.”
“My room is off the kitchen,” Bruno said. “Miss Roux has Guestroom One.”
“Where does Mr. Ackerman sleep?”
“The Master Bedroom, madam.”
Chapter 27
Ten Foxglove Lane—hashish smoke, laughter from the kitchen.
The doorbell rang, and Gerry went to answer.
But Uncle beat him to it, throwing open the door, welcome to Sedona, ladies. Framed in the doorway Gerry saw two hookers, one in red, one in black, ladies of the night straight from Phoenix.
The hooker in black was mid-30s, dirty-blonde hair, a wicked mouth, holding it together in a tough profession. “I’m Suzanne,” she said.
Her friend in red was a Latina, maybe twenty, with mesh stockings and a sweet smile that she turned on Gerry.
“Hola,” she said. “I am Rosita.”
Gerry smelled perfume, soap, woman. Their vehicle, a big pickup, was parked in the driveway, behind Gerry’s Escalade.
Rosita’s warm handshake made Gerry want her, ten minutes, fifteen, man on top, real sex with a real woman who gave a shit. His wife had cut him off—what a bitch.
Then Uncle said, “This way, ladies.”
They left Gerry standing in the hallway, pissed off. Uncle had the money, U.S. greenbacks in a green North Face backpack. In this transaction, Uncle was the Big Dog,
Gerry heard applause from the kitchen, loud Arab voices, laughter, have a drink, ladies. The blonde’s voice carried: “Is the pool heated? I’d love a dip.” Gerry turned his back on them, opened the front door, no wife in sight, no Marina Alessandro Vargas Ramsay. The bitch had been running in Dallas, morning and night, her quick feet taking her away from the marriage, toward divorce.
They were bunked down in Oak Creek Village, a dead little suburb south of Sedona, to buy an old hotel for Prince Kemal—his Saudi daddy was rich in petro-dollars—and turn it into a casino. Gerry was brokering the deal because he needed the job, because the fucking courts had frozen his equity—endless fallout from that fucked-up mess in Taos—and because his wife was cozying up to Hiram Fish, who was cozy with Arab oil.
Gerry flicked on the TV—football, football, football, golf. He had given up his membership at Brookhaven, because of Taos, that guy Murdock, who still had Gerry’s boots. Uncle walked by, sweet-talking the blonde. She carried a bottle of Chivas. The Latina walked by, holding hands with Prince Kemal, son of a sheik, a fresh-faced boy, cigarette dangling, who looked at Gerry and said, “Okay, Pilgrim, who said this: ‘Only the farmers won. We lost. We always lose.’ ”
“Yul Brynner in The Magnificent Seven,” Gerry said. “He was talking to Steve McQueen.”
“I’ll get you yet, Pilgrim.”
“Is he really a pilgrim?” the Latina said.
“A figure of speech, beautiful lady.”
“In my language, that would be El Peregrino.”
The Prince laughed, pointed at Gerry, and mouthed the word, Peregrino.
The Latina blew Gerry a kiss: you’re next. He heard her high heels on the hallway pavers.
This house, Ten Foxglove Lane in Oak Creek Village, belonged to a friend back in Dallas. It had eight bedrooms, five baths. It was built like twin space pods, connected by a breezeway. The pool was Olympic size, with a covered patio. Then a low fence, an arroyo between the fence and the golf course. Where the fuck was Marina?
In the kitchen, the two Arab bodyguards were smoking—Gerry smelled hashish. There was an action flick on TV, Tom Cruise leaping across rooftops. Gerry poured himself a drink of Chivas and sat down next to Yancey Latimer, his friend from SMU, back in the day. The Arabs nodded as they left the room. Gerry lifted his glass. Fucking button men with shaved heads—no way to keep those names straight. Outside, on the patio, Gerry saw movement, a shadow gliding. When he looked again, it was gone.
Latimer talked about women. He was having wife-troubles too, fallout from Taos, the Angel mountain thing. Gerry heard noises from the bedroom wing. A whispery sound, then a thump, like furniture falling. The music was loud, coming from the TV.
“You hear that?” Latimer said.
“Hear what?”
“Sounded like a goat farting.”
Gerry yawned. He needed sleep. The Chivas tasted bitter. Outside on the patio thin smoke rose from the barbecue. The lid was closed; Uncle was smoking half a sheep.
Gerry looked up. A man stood in the kitchen doorway. He wore black battle dress, a black baseball cap, no team name, and yellow shooting glasses. His eyes behind them were steel-blue. He shot Latimer with an automatic weapon, ammo in a curved banana clip. When the rounds hit home, Latimer was halfway out of his chair.
Latimer slumped, grabbing for the table.
Gerry was a hunter from Texas. He knew his guns. The guy in the doorway was armed with an MK17. The rounds were nine mil. The clip looked like a 30. The guy wore a balaclava that covered his mouth, but his eyes were smiling. He shot the two button men; one had a pistol out. Chairs crashed onto the kitchen floor. The gun swung to Gerry, and his right hand exploded.
Gerry felt faint. He slid off the chair, putting the table between himself and the shooter. Gerry’s hand blazed, hot fire. He needed ice, holy shit.
Yancey Latimer was on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling. Gerry wished that his wife, snooty Marina, would walk in, right fucking now. Get a taste of this gunfire. Gerry tried to stand, but his legs were shaking. His head rang with klaxons from a European cop movie. He crawled to the doorway leading to the patio—get away from this house, this fucking madman. He was reaching for the doorknob when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the shooter. His eyes were smiling behind the yellow lenses. The balaclava had a slit for the mouth.
“Hey, Ramsay,” the mouth said. “Remember me?”
Gerry shook his head. A voice from the past, tugging at him—hey, Ramsay. Gerry’s brain did a back flip, diving into the past. His brain was a camera, the camera was airborne. It homed in on a dusty schoolyard, dusk of an autumn day, leaves blowing, sepia tones, like an old photo. A chain-link fence, steel poles for a volleyball net. The wind was fierce; it never stopped in that tiny town. Red leaves, yellow leaves, dead leaves, and this little nothing shit wanted to fight.
“We can work something out,” Gerry said.
“Still the wheeler-dealer.”
Gerry’s hands were red with Latimer’s blood. He clawed at the door. His belly was bloated; he felt a belch starting. Too much food, not enough gym-time. You had to push yourself to not be fat. The Chivas came back up, burned his throat.
Helpless, feeling the nearness of death, he watched the shooter advance. Felt the muzzle against his forehead. There was a soft pop, then nothing.
Chapter 28
The Humvee was on Fox Hollow Road when Murdock told Helene to cut the lights. Helene glared at him, who’s the driver here, then swung onto Foxglove Lane. It was a corner house, a three car garage, five bedrooms, maybe six. Lights were on. A barbecue sat on the patio, smoke rising. Murdock rolled down his window and the smell of burnt meat made Helene nauseous. Movement on the patio caught her attention. They were coasting now, easing down as the street sloped. A shadow broke the yellow light from the patio windows, moving fast.
“Goose it,” Murdock said.
“I’m driving here.”
“Sorry.”
<
br /> “I’ve got him.”
Helene caught the man in the headlights once, a runner in a track suit, wearing shoes with no reflectors. The Hummer was closing the distance—sixty feet, fifty feet away—when the runner vanished. Helene saw a glint of metal. It was up the street, near the corner. When she turned the corner, there was no one.
“Maybe he had a bike waiting,” Murdock said. “No noise. No reflectors, no lights.”
“A black bike,” Helene said. “Or we’d have seen something.”
“Let’s check the house.”
Helene parked the Humvee up the street at the edge of the golf course.
She pulled latex gloves from her rucksack, handed a pair to Murdock.
Helene was a cop’s daughter, always be prepared.
They checked their flashlights.
She followed Murdock across the drainage ditch, over the short adobe wall, on to the patio at Ten Foxglove Lane. The burnt meat smell came from a gas cooker on the patio. No sounds came from the house. Helene felt sick. She remembered Angel Mountain.
She stood with Murdock, looking through the kitchen window.
Broken glass, broken wine bottles, bullet holes in the walls, a guy in a shirt and jeans. And someone lying against the back door. She saw white tennis shoes, no socks, the pale yellow legs of a track suit.
The house was two pods connected by a corridor with skylights.
There was no water in the pool. They found an open window, a body on the floor, boxer shorts white in the flashlight beam. Murdock went in first. Helene kept watch outside. Eleven o’clock in Oak Creek Village and nothing was moving. Was this normal for a Tuesday?
Murdock called her inside. Helene climbed through the window, into a bedroom. The white shorts went with a dead guy on the floor—hairy legs, wearing a red tank top, his blood still wet and gleaming on the carpet. One of Ackerman’s Arabs.
A woman in the hallway—blonde, blowsy, wearing a yellow teddy, and one shoe, red, with a spiked heel. Her eyes stared at nothing.
A second dead guy in the adjoining bedroom.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 10
