Agent Monty Featherstone was a good-looking man. An East Coast guy, he knew how to dress. Helene was from Brooklyn, a cop’s daughter, and she knew the power of the upper classes.
If you were upper class East Coast, they taught you how to operate. How to play tennis, billiards, croquet at lawn parties. How to charm the teachers, get those grades. How to get into the top schools, join the top clubs, root for the right teams. How to get the top girl, a trophy female to stand by your side at the best parties.
If you were upper class, they prepped you to take the helm, to stabilize the status quo.
Featherstone’s trousers had the knife-edge crease. Helene had not noticed at the crime scene. In this light, his leather jacket looked worn but expensive—that hand-me-down vintage heirloom look.
He wore the button-down shirt open at the throat—as if he had just this minute removed the stylish necktie. His black shoes gleamed in the flickering light from Ackerman’s fake fireplace.
He shook hands with Ackerman.
He accepted a glass of wine from Bruno.
In a solemn voice, Featherstone expressed the perfect dollop of sympathy for Marina Ramsay’s dead husband. He was stalling, feinting, posing—he had crossed the threshold into Ackerman’s world. Why was he really here?
“You have questions for me?”
“Is this a good time?”
“If you don’t have so many,” she said. “I am so—”
“Is this a good place,” Featherstone said. “Or would you prefer—”
“I am among friends here,” she said. “Please.”
“What time did you leave the residence at Foxglove Lane?”
“Around eight. I was afraid, I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Ramsay arrived here at 8:05,” Ackerman said.
“What motivated you to leave?” Featherstone said.
“He sold me,” Marina said, “to that beastly Arab person.”
“Which Arab, ma’am?”
“The older one, the uncle. What a swine.”
“Did you know him from before tonight?”
“He came to my home … in Dallas.”
“Did he make any advances there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell your husband?”
“Gerry told me to be a good hostess.”
“When you left Foxglove Lane, what was happening then?”
“They were drinking. They were quite loud, bragging about their sexual prowess.”
“Did you see the money change hands?”
“It’s why I left.”
“Was it an IOU? Cash?”
“It was cash” Marina said.
“There was no cash found—not that much, anyway—at the crime scene.”
“I’m sorry,” Marina said. “Was there a question?”
“I only have a couple more.”
Ackerman said, “Don’t cross-examine her, goddammit.”
Featherstone turned to stare at Ackerman. His voice had an edge. He represented the power of the state.
“I’m with Homeland Security, sir. What we have here is the making of an international incident—I’m hoping to exclude you from the investigation.”
“I made a couple phone calls,” Ackerman said. “You work for Hiram Fish. You’re his goddamn official fixer.”
“The Senator sends his regards,” Featherstone said. “He speaks warmly of you.”
“These dead Arabs,” Ackerman said. “Were they oil people?”
“Prince Kemal’s father happens to be an oil sheik, yes.”
“Four Arabs,” Ackerman said. “Two gotta be security goons. So there was one more raghead hotshot. Who was he?”
“Jamal Rashid,” Featherstone said. “Attached to the embassy, hence the diplomatic plates.”
“There’s something else,” Ackerman said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”
Helene felt the shift in the room, a change in the atmosphere. Featherstone was lying, Ackerman had caught him—something political, maybe. Murdock’s old jungle Buddy was not here to interrogate Marina Ramsay.
Featherstone stood up, locked eyes with Ackerman for moment, then drained his wine glass. Bruno led him to the door.
As Featherstone left the room, Helene felt like a weight had been lifted. She got to her feet. An idea buzzed in her head. She turned to Marina Ramsay.
“Mrs. Ramsay,” she said.
“Please call me Marina.”
“Okay, Marina,” Helene said. “Did the Arabs contact your husband … or did he contact them?”
Chapter 33
Silence in the room while Marina Ramsay sipped her tea. She looked at Ackerman, who gave her his best fatherly smile. Marina took a deep breath, Helene could hear the gears shifting.
“It was through Yancey Latimer,” she said. “He knew someone in Washington.”
“So was buying this old hotel Latimer’s idea?”
“They were always cooking something up.”
“Were they using a local bank?” Helene said.
“If they were, Gerry didn’t tell me.”
“Did your husband mention that he knew about Mr. Ackerman … that he was buying the hotel?”
“All I know is that Mr. Ackerman was some kind of hero to Gerry.”
“Now I’ve heard everything,” Ackerman said.
“What do you mean ‘hero’?” Helene said.
“Gerry had this story about going to New York,” Marina said. “He was right out of high school. He left messages at Mr. Ackerman’s business. He tried to make appointments. They never made contact.”
Helene turned to Ackerman. The old guy was twisted around in his chair, staring at Marina Ramsay. Maybe it was the brandy, but she seemed perkier, more color in her face, the pallor ebbing.
“When the hell was this?” Ackerman said.
“Gerry was just out of high school,” Marina said.
“How did he know about me?”
“He worked on the high-school newspaper,” Marina said. “He interviewed local businessmen.”
“Where was the newspaper?” Helene said.
“I don’t remember the town,” Marina said. “They were talking about the old days, before Dallas. We were in the car, Yancey Latimer was driving. I was in the back seat, trying to sleep. They were talking about driving at night, escaping their small town. They compared the cars of today with their cars in high school. The high school memories got Gerry going. He wore glasses back then. They called him Clark Kent, boy reporter. He was bragging about interviewing Mr. Ackerman for the high school newspaper. This time, he said, he would get in to see him.”
“Are you sure?” Ackerman said.
“It’s not your average name,” Marina said. “So this afternoon, Gerry and his friends were not allowed up here. He lost face. The Arabs turned rowdy. That awful man came after me. But if I had stayed….”
Marina stopped talking, her face pale. She turned her head, fixed her gaze on Ackerman.
He said, “You poor gal.”
Silence filled the room. Helene nudged Murdock. His eyes opened; he observed Marina Ramsay. She was fidgeting with her tea-cup. Helene wondered how much of Marina’s story was true. Bruno topped off her brandy and vanished into the kitchen.
“Mrs. Ramsay,” Murdock said. “How well do you know Senator Fish?”
“Not well. Why do you ask?”
“What about your husband?”
“He supports the Senator … or did, when we had money.”
“Murdock?” Ackerman said. “Where the hell is this coming from?”
“Just trying to fit the pieces together, Ack.”
“What pieces?”
“Arabs and oil money,” Murdock said. “Arizona real estate, competing bids for an old hotel. Senator Fish chairs the Senate committee on energy. He’s also on the committee that oversees Homeland Security. Has the Senator been to your house often, Mrs. Ramsay?”
Marina Ramsay dropped her teacup. It hit the carpet and bounced, splashin
g tea laced with brandy. She stood up, put her face in her hands, and started crying. Ackerman gave Murdock a look of disapproval. He got to his feet, gripped Marina’s shoulders, and turned her over to Giselle Roux. Marina and Giselle left the room.
Murdock was on his knees, sopping up the spilled tea, the perfect clean-up man. Bruno came out from the kitchen, tried to take over the mopping up, but Murdock waved him away, like a sinner doing penance.
“Was that really necessary?” Ackerman said. “The poor woman’s just lost her husband.”
“Tell us about this guy, Fish.”
“Fat face Hiram Fish,” Ackerman said. “He was seven years behind me in school. I knew him because I cleaned the family swimming pool. That smug prick would stand in the shade, order me around. Fish was too fat for sports—there’s a story of him puking at football tryouts—so he chose politics, became senior class president. He scratched his way up—city government, county, state, the house, the senate.”
“How do you guys get along?”
“He’s a born-again right winger. I’m a liberal Jew. Why?”
“Working on our list,” Murdock said. “People who hold a grudge against Axel Ackerman. We’ll add Fish.”
“Fish is a coward,” Ackerman said. “He’s in bed with the Arabs, but he doesn’t have the balls to engineer these kills. Speaking of kills, you two look dead. Something going on, something in Sleuth Loveland I should know about?”
*****
Ackerman was in bed, dreaming of Daphne Fish, mother of Hiram, when he heard the door opening. He saw a figure silhouetted in the hallway light. The door closed. Ackerman smelled perfume.
His visitor was Marina Ramsay. She didn’t ask permission. She said, “I am freezing to death and very lonely” and climbed in beside him. Cold hands, steamy body. She wore pajama tops but not the bottoms. She pushed herself against him, and Ackerman felt the magic of Doctor Tim’s man-pills as blood stiffened his dick. He liked this woman, this sumptuous widow from Texas via Argentina. She was warm and needy. She knew her way around men. Her hand was on him and she got him inside with an expert shimmy. She told him to go slow, por favor. Ackerman sank into her. How long since his last woman?
“What will happen to me?” she said.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “You’re here. I’m here. You’re not dead. I’m certainly feeling alive. Thank you for coming.”
“You are a good man,” she said. “May I show you something?”
Ackerman said yes. Her finger found his asshole. His prostate was ancient. But Marina’s finger brought magic, flicking that dead old gland. His orgasm arrived with bright tears smarting and a happy, pulsing dick. Marina held onto him, letting him know she expected a fee for services rendered. Ackerman was a pay-as-you-go guy. He opened the drawer in his bedside table, felt the vial of man pills next to the money stack. He laid the money on the bed sheet. The woman smiled, and the smile turned into a low chuckle. There were no words. Just her hand on his shrinking dick, warm as a womb. She did not pussyfoot around—no fake refusals, attempts to give the money back. Her first husband was dead. She was on the hunt for Number Two, feeling desperate. Ackerman liked that, a needy woman filled with gratitude.
Ackerman was dropping off to sleep when she said, “You asked where Gerry met you, where he did the interview.”
“In the morning, okay?”
“A small town in the Texas Panhandle,” Marina said. “I remembered after I calmed down.”
“Tell me tomorrow,” Ackerman said.
“The town was called Amarillo.”
Day Three
Chapter 34
On Wednesday morning it was still dark when Karla rolled out of bed, her head alive with her budding mystery story for Helene’s workshop. She wrote for half an hour, felt the surge of satisfaction, watching her words roll out. Five minutes in the shower, seven minutes in the kitchen. A handful of almonds, two prunes, half an apple.
Karla’s apartment was on Fox Glen Circle, a cul-de-sac that led to Foxglove Lane. She came around a corner and saw the cop cars, three of them, nosed up to the big house at Number Ten.
The house with the Escalade, the Mercedes with the diplomatic plates.
A big black pickup with Arizona plates.
The white SUV was Coconino sheriff.
The black Crown Vic was Sedona police, a cop behind the wheel.
The black SUV looked Federal.
Portable sawhorses blocked the front entrance. Yellow crime scene ribbons shimmered in the early morning breeze. A media van was parked across the street, where a woman in a trench coat was talking to a camera, a portable light on a tripod, her face half in shadow.
Two cops came out of the house.
One in his uniform, pot belly, big head of white hair—Chief Larry Something, Sedona Police. The other cop was Steve Slattery, one of Karla’s customers. The chief nodded at Karla, shook hands with Slattery, and headed for the Crown Vic.
“Hey, Steve.”
“Hey, Karla, got any coffee on you? I am dying here.”
“What happened? All these cops, even a TV crew.”
“Tell you later, when I get clearance.”
When she passed Fox Hollow, Karla turned her head. Mr. Cypher’s house was on the cul-de-sac, number Three Fox Hollow. She pictured him in bed, alone. Then she pictured him with a woman. Blonde hair, tanned skin, a Purity Ring on a chain around her throat. The image made Karla sick to her stomach.
*****
They had breakfast in the Bell Rock Bistro. Helene ordered her special egg-beater omelet, dry toast, seven prunes. Murdock went to the breakfast bar. When he got back to the table, Helene was on her cellphone. She said okay, turned to Murdock.
“One of my students,” she said, “about creating the killer.”
“What advice did you give?”
“Trauma in the back story,” she said. “”Followed by the Killer Interview. Here comes Axel.”
Ackerman shook hands. His color looked good. He ordered the usual. The waitress nodded, walked away. Ackerman watched her go.
“The cat who ate the canary,” Helene said.
“You talking to me?” Ackerman said.
Helene took a sip of coffee, then she stood up. Her omelet was half-eaten. Ackerman asked where she was going. Murdock kept eating. “The workshop,” Helene said. She needed to get her head straight. Ackerman watched her walk off. Turned to Murdock.
“What was that bullshit about cats and canaries?”
“Girl code,” Murdock said.
“Code for what?”
“She suspects you nailed Marina Ramsay.”
“You should thank the Widow Ramsay.” Ackerman said.
“Thank her for what?”
“For saying the magic word.”
“What magic word?”
“Amarillo,” Ackerman said. “The plane’s getting serviced. Should be ready for a noon take-off.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Ackerman’s food arrived. He took the first bite grinning, a billionaire with an appetite—he’d made it through Tuesday night without getting killed.
While Ackerman shoveled in the food, Murdock jotted a list for his trip to Amarillo. Before he was done with the list, his cellphone rang. Cypher wanted a meeting at Red Rock Coffee. He sounded lonely.
Chapter 35
Nine o’clock, Wednesday morning, Helene stood at the door, greeting her workshop writers, wondering who would show—you always lost people after the first day. Karla Kurtz arrived early, dressed in black leggings, running shoes, and a vest over her red T-shirt. Helene had the feeling that Karla wanted to share something, but then the writers entered in ones and twos, and Karla found her seat, next to Giselle Roux. They were chatting like old friends.
Helene opened the Wednesday class with character and dialogue. She told them to connect the killer to a secondary character—a sleuth, a victim, a helper—and gave them the prompt, “Today I am writing about ….” Time flew, hands moving. When the time
r beeped, Helene asked for readers. Karla stood up, and her voice was shaky starting out:
Today I am writing about the partnership in crime. I am older now, older and smarter. I need a young gal for bait. My job is waitressing at a Vegas casino. My work uniform is short shorts and a halter top. The high heels kill my feet. I meet this gal Sharleen in the casino. She works the tables, roulette, Keno, blackjack. Sharleen is younger than me, sexy, with a terrific figure. She stays in shape by working out at the gym. She has dark skin and pale blue eyes. She makes fun of my Southern accent. Sharleen stirs my heart to love. She is a runner. Like me. I got this great route along the Strip, from Tropicana to Circus Circus. We run early, ahead of the swarm. I tell her about growing up in the South. My daddy was a preacher, my mom was a housewife. I want her to like me. I tell her about Uncle Lonnie sticking me, how I got pregnant. What did you do? she said. I killed him—I want her sympathy—I watched him drown. Sharleen does not turn away. Poor you, she says. Let me kiss you, I say. You hate men, Sharleen says. I can live with that. Sharleen likes the guys. I explain my theory—all any man wants with any girl is to stick it inside, get her pregnant. She tells me she’s short of money. How bad do you want it? I say. We stake out a target at a convention hotel. He’s old, his name is William. Call me Willy, he says. Can I buy you ladies a drink?
I hang out while she gets him drunk. I wait on Four. She brings him up in the elevator. We get him in the room, he grabs her, he wants to stick it inside. Goddamn, he says. Bet you gals didn’t know I was wired for two-twenty. We lift his wallet, credit cards, fancy turquoise money clip. We walk him to the stairwell. Sharleen is jumpy. I want him dead. I push him, he goes down. Death by falling. Oh, shit, there’s the timer ….
Nodding in the Yavapai Room, they could hear it too. Helene gave Karla the thumbs up, good job, girl. Karla’s eyes were bright, her face looked flushed. Writing can do that, Helene thought, but only if you let go. Helene checked her watch, time for a break. Ackerman would be on the court. Where was Murdock? They had almost been a team last night, working Marina Ramsay. But this morning, the wall was back, thick as privacy glass, keeping them apart. In the hallway, Helene saw Karla on her cellphone, strain on her face.
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 12
