He was young, late twenties, his beard two days old, edged thin by a barber.
Three down, how many to go?
They worked their way down the corridor. The curtains were closed, blocking the view of the empty pool. In the third bedroom, they found a third dead Arab and a woman about Teri Breedlove’s age, black hair, black panties, her face dotted by bullets. The guy was still dressed.
The fourth Arab lay face down, a pistol on the floor, where the connecting corridor exploded into the high-ceilinged living room, leather furniture and another fake fireplace where fake flames leaped.
They moved across the carpet, guns and flashlights, then on to the parquet floor of the dining room.
The kitchen was king-size, a curved countertop with bar chairs, a six-burner range, two ovens built into the wall, two microwaves, two dishwashers.
The man Helene had seen through the window was Yancey Latimer, a Dallas rich guy who had been part of the Ramsay gang in Taos.
The dead guy in the silky yellow track suit had his back to the patio door.
There was shattered glass around him, blood streaks on his hands, as if he had crawled through glass to the door. Congealing blood around a wound in his foot.
His chin rested on his chest. There was a bullet hole between his eyes. The dead man was Gerry Ramsay, banker from Dallas, wearing tennis shoes, no socks.
Helene thought of Gerry’s wife, Marina Ramsay.
She was safe at Sedona Landing, under the protective wing of Axel Ackerman. Marina had missed getting killed by a couple of hours. Maybe she got a signal, her woman’s intuition. Maybe she’d had a tip, get out now.
Chapter 29
Helene checked her watch. They had been inside six minutes; time to go. Before they left, they looked for surveillance cameras, recording devices. There was one surveillance camera, mounted above the wide front entrance. It was dead, riddled by bullets. They found no microphones.
Outside, the air was chilly, no breeze.
They stripped off their latex gloves, Helene tucked them back into her rucksack. She phoned Steve Slattery on his cell. She reported a dead man at Ten Foxglove Lane.
Slattery said, “Holy shit, did you tell Deputy Fremont?”
“We phoned you, Steve.”
“Stay there, don’t touch a goddamn thing. What’s the address again?”
Slattery hung up. Helene phoned Connie Fremont.
They sat in the Humvee. The dashboard clock was digital; each minute took an hour.
Seven minutes after Helene’s call, headlights lit the street.
A white SUV braked to a stop in the driveway at Ten Foxglove Lane, bumper nosed up close to the black Mercedes with diplomatic plates. Two Coconino deputies climbed out, one holding a shotgun.
Helene glanced at Murdock. Inside the house, they had been a pair, two ex-cops working together. Outside, Helene felt the wall slide between them.
She remembered her first crime scene, her first murder victim, a dead wife in the Bronx. Helene had been on patrol back then; the sergeant in command was a friend of her dad’s. They wanted her to understand the job. That was before she killed anyone. Killing made you see things from a different angle. It hit you in the stomach.
The next arrival was a patrol car from Sedona. Then a Crown Vic, Slattery’s ride.
Then Olivera’s crime-scene van, doors opening, Olivera with her valise, an assistant behind her, a chubby guy hustling to keep up.
Another white SUV paused outside, backed up, turned the corner, and drove up the dark street, stopping beside the Humvee.
The window of the SUV was down, Connie Fremont at the wheel. She said, “I brought coffee for three.”
Connie parked in front of the Humvee and appeared at the door with a sack from Red Rock Coffee. Climbing into the back, she closed the door and handed out the coffee.
“So we got corpses?” she said.
“We only saw one,” Helene said.
“Where was that?”
“In the kitchen.”
“You get inside yet?”
“No way,” Helene said.
“The crime scene is sacrosanct,” Murdock said. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Run it for me,” Connie said. “What were you two kids doing out here in the dark?”
“A woman asked us to check on this house,” Helene said. “Her husband was alone with some Arabs, so she left the house, ran to Sedona Landing. We knew her from Taos. She had no money. Axel offered her a bedroom for the night. Before coming over here, I took the Humvee for a little speed test. The interstate was wide open.”
“Ackerman wants to sell you his Humvee?” Connie said.
“He’s shifting to hybrid everything,” Helene said. “He gets first dibs on the new ULT they’re building for the army.”
What’s that mean—ULT what?”
“Ultra Light Vehicle,” Helene said.
“So what made you check the house?”
“We saw this guy, this shadow … he jumped the ditch right there. He was in our headlights for like two seconds, moving really fast; then he crossed the street and disappeared. We went around a couple blocks, found no sign of him.”
“Might have had a bike,” Murdock said.
“So then you rang the doorbell?” Connie said.
“We did not touch the doors. We did look in the kitchen, where we saw broken glass, bullet holes, a guy on the floor, backed up against the patio door. He was not moving. We phoned it in.”
“You called Steve first,” Connie said.
“He’s got the rank,” Helene said. “Standard procedure.”
“Have you forgotten what it’s like to be a female cop?”
“Sorry,” Helene said.
Connie’s voice sounded hurt. Helene felt bad for her. The Coconino sheriff had two female deputies, Connie was one. As a female, she bridled at working with Steve Slattery. Maybe they had dated, sometime in the past. Connie was attractive, she had a great smile, she worked out, she jogged, she kept herself in shape for the job. Connie needed a break, something to give her career a boost; maybe this case was it. Only now it looked like two cases—how did the Dead Bankers connect to the Dead Arabs? And how did Ramsay and Latimer fit in?
Murdock’s cellphone rang. Maybe it was Ackerman, calling for a report on Gerry Ramsay, Marina’s husband.
Chapter 30
The voice on the phone came from out of the past. The caller used Murdock’s nickname from the jungle. The caller-window said Homeland Security.
“Foxy Murdock, this is your commandant calling. Are you in country? Over.”
“Monty?” Murdock said. “What the hell?”
“You may address me as Agent-in-Charge, Soldier.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Coming up on your flank, Soldier. How about we reconnoiter on the lighted patio.”
“Roger that,” Murdock said.
The voice from the past went away. Murdock could feel Helene looking at him. Before she spoke, he knew what she was thinking.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “It’s another of your crazy friends from the jungle.”
“Monty Featherstone,” Murdock said. “He was the agent-in-charge, wore a shoulder-rig. His trousers always had a crease.”
“Did he call you Foxy?” Helene said.
“Aye-aye, captain.”
Connie spoke from the backseat. “Is Foxy some kind of secret macho-sexy code name?”
“Murdock knows his way around,” Helene said. “Mountain, gully, desert, or swamp—so the guys in his unit nicknamed him Foxy, short for the Swamp Fox, a famous name from the Revolutionary War era, a soldier named Francis Marion.”
“Francis Marion won the war, single-handed,” Murdock said. “Without him, we’d still be speaking the King’s English. As for me, I am honored to carry his sobriquet, passed down through time, from soldier to—”
“He’s delirious,” Connie said. Her voice had the undercurrent of admiration.
&
nbsp; “This guy Monty,” Helene said. “Tell me he’s not as crazy as Sammy Savage.”
“Savage …” Connie said. “Where do I know that name from?”
“Forget it,” Helene said.
“I remember,” Connie said. “Something about gun-play in a courtroom in Taos, right?”
“I’m trying to forget, okay?”
“Better leave your weapon in the vehicle, Steinbeck.”
“No problem,” Helene said. “If this old jungle buddy gets out of line, I’ll let Connie shoot him.”
“Let me get a look at him first,” Connie said. “Is he single?”
There was no breeze, and the smell of scorched meat hung over the patio. Monty Featherstone wore a leather jacket, dark pants, and horn-rimmed glasses. Monty was not as tall as Murdock remembered. He looked shrunken, stooped. What was he doing in Oak Creek Village?
Murdock introduced Connie first, then Helene. When he shook hands with Helene, Monty held on for two extra beats. Asked for a briefing, Helene repeated the story she had told Connie Fremont. Featherstone did not take notes. He nodded but he did not ask follow-up questions; instead, he asked to see the officer in charge. Connie went off to find Slattery.
Helene said, “You and Murdock are old jungle buddies?”
Featherstone said, “Foxy was in-country, where the fun was. I was at the firebase, sipping whiskey, smoking cigars, playing poker with retired generals, politicians who needed photo ops.”
“When did you sign on with Homeland Security?” Murdock said.
Monty said, “It’s a pre-retirement ploy. To lock in my pension, I get ferried around in black SUVs, keeps me on the payroll. How many Arabs are dead in there, anyway?”
“Beats me,” Murdock said.
“You peeked in a window, then you called the authorities … just like that?”
“There were bullet holes,” Murdock said, “and broken glass, and spilled wine, and blood, and a guy lying there. It was a crime scene. We didn’t see anyone moving, no calls for help, no reason to enter, so we left it for the pros.”
“The pros have arrived. Your problems are over.”
Connie Fremont came around the corner, talking to Steve Slattery. Murdock made the introductions. Slattery’s handshake was brusque, his voice low, an animal growling. He spent some time staring at the federal ID, then he handed it back.
“So,” Slattery said. “Homeland Security, you’re here because we got four dead Arabs, right?”
“Correct,” Monty said.
“I worked with Feds in L.A.,” Slattery said, “and in Phoenix, where they fucked up my crime scene, mucked up my investigation. So how big a Fed footprint have I got to put up with here in peaceful little Oak Creek Village?”
“I have only two requests,” Monty said.
“Oh, yeah … what?”
“I’d like to see inside, verify the identities of our Saudi friends.”
“How do you do verify?” Slattery said.
“Matching photos,” Monty said. “Confirmed by DNA from your lab people.”
“Okay,” Slattery said. “You got it. What else?”
“I’d like a copy of your weapons inventory,” Monty said. “We’ll run it through our database.”
Slattery’s cellphone rang. He turned away, walked to the edge of the patio. When he rejoined the group, he said, “That was Olivera, our CSI tech. She’s got a preliminary report. After that, I’ll take you inside.”
“Roger that,” Monty said. “Is there coffee?”
Slattery yelled at a cop to bring six coffees.
Murdock had questions for Monty Featherstone. How did he get Murdock’s phone number? How did he get here so fast? But Olivera came onto the patio, and before she could get going on her report, the cop arrived with six coffees. Monty wanted milk and sugar. The cop went away. Murdock did the introductions, and Olivera gave Monty a look that became a smile. Slattery asked her to get going.
They stood in a half-circle while Olivera checked her notes.
“This is preliminary,” Olivera said. “We’ve got four dead Arabs and two dead females, probably out of Phoenix. We’ve got two dead Anglos. One is Yancey Latimer, Dallas. The other dead guy has been identified as Gerald Ramsay. He owns the Escalade in the driveway. He’s a banker, also out of Dallas. Since you’re on the scene, Agent, we could use Federal help identifying the Arabs. Okay, where was I? There. Ammo expended … we’ve located forty-seven rounds so far. My guess is the shooter used an automatic weapon with a thirty-round clip and reloaded once. Everyone except the Ramsay guy had multiple wounds. His hands are bleeding—looks like he crawled through glass—and there’s a lesion on his head, but the thing that killed him was a single shot between the eyes.”
Monty Featherstone said, “Any info yet on caliber sizes?”
“The thirty-round clip was probably a nine mil,” Olivera said. “The single shot to the eyeball was small. I can’t be sure until the autopsy and the lab work, but I’d bet the bullet was a twenty-two, and shot from a pistol. If we find powder burns, we could assume that the shooter was close—eyeball to eyeball with Ramsay—when the trigger got pulled.”
Olivera offered to get Monty inside, professional courtesy. He grinned; his charm was working. The grin hid something. He shook hands with Helene, then Murdock, then walked off with Olivera. Slattery and Connie followed, talking jurisdiction.
Back in the Humvee, Helene said, “What is it with your old buddies? Sammy Savage was nuts; now here comes smooth Monty Featherstone, same era, same jungle. When did you give him your cellphone number?”
“I didn’t, Murdock said.
Chapter 31
In the Penthouse elevator, Helene used the keycard. She felt sticky, crusted with the day’s deaths. A shower would be nice.
The construction guys had left a narrow path marked by sawhorses. Helene smelled sawdust, paint thinner, and sheet rock. The security camera tracked their progress to the door. Helene was reaching for the big black doorknocker when the door swung open and she saw Giselle Roux, in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Giselle’s hair needed washing. Her eyes showed her weariness.
They followed Giselle into the living room.
Ackerman sat in the black-leather armchair. The TV screen was on, playing a cop show rerun. Nothing on the massacre yet.
Marina Ramsay was not in the room.
Helene stayed quiet while Murdock briefed Ackerman on the Foxglove Lane crime scene. The lone shooter, the automatic weapon, the thirty-round clip. Ackerman kept his steely look. Giselle Roux said, “Oh no.” Ackerman pushed himself out of his chair. His wine glass spilled, red wine sloshing the carpet. He stared down at the wine. He jerked his head at Giselle. She left the room, headed down the wide hallway.
Bruno came in from the kitchen. He wore an apron and there was sweat on his bald head.
He went to his knee, pressed the tea towel onto the dark spot, the spilled wine.
Ackerman pointed a finger at Murdock. His hand was shaking. He sat down again.
“Dead?” he said. “Her husband is dead?”
Giselle Roux came back, arms linked with Marina Ramsay.
Marina’s hair was ruffled from the bed. Worry lines marked her face. She asked about her husband.
“He’s dead, Mrs. Ramsay,” Ackerman said.
Her face collapsed, and she moaned, slumped onto the sofa. Ackerman sat beside her, put his arm around her. What would she like? Coffee? Tea? A glass of red wine? “Did you see him?” Marina asked.
Helene nodded. She had questions; she waited for an opening. Marina Ramsay was a survivor, and the bereaved widow pose was an act. Giselle Roux brought a blanket. Ackerman tucked it around Marina’s legs. Bruno came back with a teapot on a tray. A tiny teacup, a tiny cream pitcher, a bowl of sugar cubes. As she drank the tea, Marina eased her face into fake sorrow mode. When she set the teacup down, it did not rattle the saucer. Lady in control.
Helene studied Marina on the sofa, sipping her tea. Her eyes watered. She
kept asking if they were sure. Was her husband really dead?
Tired, Helene waited for an opening. Murdock was no help. He looked half-asleep—a better word would be quiescent—his eyes closed, his breathing steady. But under the quiet, she felt his brain working, chewing at the case. The room waited while Marina Ramsay sipped her tea.
Chapter 32
Helene wiggled her toes.
Still there, reality check, ten toes, two feet.
She pulled off her right sock. The foot was less tender. Maybe she should call Karla Kurtz for a massage. She slid off the black leather sofa onto the floor. Murdock touched her shoulder, the fingers of a stranger.
What was going on with them?
Helene had no clue. There was this wall between them.
A wall, Helene thought, what a shitty metaphor for separation. More like the little lattice-work screen in the confession booth, the Catholic church, her mother’s church; Helene’s mother was a French Catholic girl who fell in love with a Jew named Steinbeck. Helene was 12 when her mother died. She went one last time to the church, the musty confession booth and spilled her sorrow into the half-dark. The priest murmured. His words stopped at the little scrollwork screen.
“I can’t hear you, Father.”
The words from the priest came again, mumbles, murmurs. God was so far away.
“Father,” she said. “I cannot hear you.”
“My child,” he said. “You are….”
The words faded, died, leaving a silence worse than silence.
Helene looked at Murdock out of the corner of her eye. He looked back. He was baffled too. They had that in common, being baffled together.
The phone rang. Bruno picked up in the kitchen, then reported to Ackerman.
“The person from Homeland Security,” Bruno said. “He wants an audience with Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Fuck him,” Ackerman said.
“Please,” Marina said. “I will go down.”
“No you won’t,” Ackerman said. “Tell him okay, Bruno.”
“Yes, Master.”
Helene smiled. Bruno and Ackerman were like brothers, one black, one white. They read each other’s thoughts. The doorbell rang.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 11
