The Last Temptation

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “You have to. Let’s sit someplace and talk.” She led me into a hall. I asked, “Is Kinley here?”

  She looked back, her face a sheen of perspiration. “No.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Tess shook her head no. “You’re not a good liar, Tess.”

  She turned and spread her arms. She was frightened, but she looked like if I pushed her too far, she’d freeze up. That wouldn’t get me much-needed answers. I said, “I’ll only go as far as you let me.”

  “I do not kidnap children.”

  “Okay.”

  I followed her down three steps into a long living room. She sat on a red sofa draped with a striped serape the color of the sunset sinking into the sea. I sat on a chair at her side.

  I’d have to do starters, and there was no time for chit-chat. “I don’t know that the law would consider a stepsister a kidnapper. It would depend on the circumstances.” Her face looked as if it would crack into two ragged pieces. “Arlo’s your father. Eileen was your stepmother.”

  “Who told you?”

  “It wasn’t Dartagnan,” I said. “You’ve got Arlo’s coloring. You have his eyes and his wide mouth, but your features are set in bones that make them beautiful. Beauty is a great disguise.”

  “My eyes? My mouth? This is how you come up with your conclusions?”

  “Bellan Thomas. The name ring a bell?”

  She shuddered and put a hand to her stomach. “He was killed with Larry.”

  “When Bellan last reported to me, your name came up, Bellan mentioned an open secret, without actually telling me what it was. But by that time, I’d guessed the truth. Arlo wouldn’t or couldn’t marry your mother, so she took you to El Paso, which is about fifteen miles up the road from Arlo’s birthplace. She died, and you came back to your mother’s people—and your father.”

  I wondered if it was resignation she swallowed. I asked gravely, “What happened that Sunday when Arlo came home and found Eileen dead in the foyer?”

  Her body sagged back. “Arlo didn’t have her killed, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Convince me.” I began opening the little package I brought.

  “Arlo loved her.”

  “He loved a lot of women, including your mother.”

  “You are pitiless,” she said, shaking her head.”

  “Murder is pitiless. Somebody killed Eileen on Saturday evening, or Sunday before Arlo came home. There’s still blood in the house. The police and the FBI are going over the place.”

  “She lived there,” Tess said. “She would bleed there.”

  “I think you know that the lab people are going to find a lot of blood in that foyer.”

  Tess rubbed her knuckles on the sofa fabric. “I know nothing.” She glanced back and forth before her eyes settled on the hem of her sundress.

  I said, “You made a mistake, didn’t you, when you took me to the moon ritual? You didn’t know that Kinley would be there. You thought she was safely behind the gates of your aunt’s house, guarded by Dobermans.”

  She bit her lower lip and spoke softly. “No one believes you.”

  “When you noticed me scrutinizing the young girl in the wig, you poisoned me with your ring.”

  She sat straighter. “I do not poison people.”

  “Your ring—it scratched me.”

  She pulled the ring from her finger. “An accident. Here!”

  I caught it and examined the onyx and turquoise. No prongs were misaligned. “Isn’t the idea for a secret chamber, to keep it secret?” I said, handing the ring back to her. “I’m sure you gave me poisoned tea.”

  “Ha. You say I did not know the girl would be in the cabin. Why would I poison you before then?”

  “To make me very sick. To make me go home. I’d been asking too many questions. Perhaps getting close to the answers.”

  Her soft mew gave her away. “I never poisoned anyone.”

  “But poisons are never far away, are they. Your people use poisons in rituals, to get high and to use as aphrodisiacs.”

  “No more than your people with their pharmacies. Besides, I saved your life that night.”

  “Yes, and you’ll always be in my thoughts—no matter what happens.” I tossed the unwrapped box on the sofa next to her. The box top, which I’d partially pulled up, came off.

  She looked into the box and drew in a shivering breath. It was the single silver earring.

  “What happened that night, Tess?”

  She wiped away the wet on her cheeks. She shook her head, defeated. “I—I was in the casino very late after we had called off the search for you until morning. My uncle monitors the televisions himself sometimes. I was in the room with him. He noticed Rowall, a no-account thug that never had any money. Rowall was playing at the crap table, big time, which made my uncle suspicious. So he opened the microphone hidden under the table. Sometimes croupiers wear microphones. We heard Rowall bragging about a woman honeypot. He said a man paid big money to keep—to keep—quiet, so he was going to keep quiet, and keep getting more money. He mumbled about the best way to treat a woman was to keep her tied up and drugged.” Tess looked at my shoulder, then above my head, at an arm, everywhere but my eyes. She said, “Rowall laughed, like it was a big joke. I suspected he could be talking about you. My uncle did not think so. He said the man was blowing smoke. Rowall had some creepy friends, mostly white trash. They were with him that night at the casino, and I’d seen them a couple of times hanging out at the Adobe Flats. They smoke dope and drink and take their whores there.”

  I nodded at her, that I’d seen the evidence. She continued, “Well, I slipped out of the casino, got in my Jeep—and I found you—tied up—drugged. But they were behind me.”

  “How did I end up at Adobe Flats?”

  “When you passed out in the cabin, we called the rez ambulance. The attendants were found tied up in an arroyo.”

  “Rowall and his friends kidnapped me from the ambulance?”

  Tess raised and lowered her shoulders. “It is what we assume.”

  “Any clue who the man is that paid big money to Rowall?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Dartagnan?”

  She looked out the window and frowned. She shook her head and looked at me. “I don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this in the beginning?”

  “Because, I had to protect—I had reasons.”

  “You kept Rowall and his buddies busy, giving me time to escape. But how did you escape?”

  “I know desert hiding places, and they were drunk and high, and slow.”

  “Where’d you hide?”

  “Not far from Heart’s Friend Rock.” She said in an apologetic whisper, “It’s a cairn. When the monsoon passed I walked home. My uncle has a Jeep like mine. I tried to find you. Then I saw the family who found you at the gold mine. You were going to be helped by them, so I went home.”

  “And your family made up a story.”

  “We thought it best to keep ourselves out of it, to protect—”

  “Kinley. Where’s Rowall and his friends?”

  She rubbed her fingers together. “They were found shot dead in the canyon, the day after you and the policeman left for Atlanta. Dartagnan said it was a drug deal gone bad.”

  “It was Rowall who shot at Lake and I at Adobe Flats.”

  “The night before they were killed, I talked to Rowall at the casino. He said he was paid to shoot at you, to scare you away. He wouldn’t say who paid; he said he got money for not saying.”

  “And a bullet for knowing. Where is Eileen buried? Where is Heart’s Friend Rock?”

  Her face flamed, and she jumped up. “You have to leave. Arlo will be home soon. I do not want to talk of this to him. He is very upset. Your Bellan invaded his home without his permission.”

  I got up. “Kinley has to go back to Atlanta.”

  “Why, so you can give her back to her pervert father?”

  “What has
Eileen told you about him?”

  “That he is a pervert. He is not like other men.”

  “Has Kinley said anything?”

  “She says he makes her feel funny.” She was on her feet, at the steps of the sunken living room.

  Sicko. “Has he molested her?”

  “Kinley fears him, but she says not,” Tess said, running up the steps. She turned. “Eileen promised her she didn’t have to go back to Atlanta.”

  I walked up the steps to face her. “I’m going back to Palm Springs. Please get Kinley ready to travel.”

  I was the rock, pushing Tess against the hard place. She knew it, and her eyes teared. I wished I could let her keep the little girl. As she stood in the hall, near the door, her bare heels planted firmly on the hardwood, I could see her digging deep, finding strength. She said, “I cannot.”

  “You must.”

  “My stepmother, Eileen, put her in my safekeeping. I will not betray her trust. Kinley is a beloved sister. You, too, must trust me. Kinley is never going back to her father.” She looked every bit a fearless Indian princess. “Tell that to your judge,” she said.

  “I found you here. Whitney will find you. She can’t stay here.”

  “I told you Kinley’s not here. No one will find her.”

  “I believe that you’ve hidden her well. The desert is vast and you have many trusted friends, but you must trust me, too, Tess. I’ll protect Kinley. So will the judge. I can tell you this: Bradley Whitney is being investigated by my office and the Atlanta PD.”

  “Eileen told me her PI said he was onto something that would put Whitney under the jail.”

  “Did she tell you what it was?”

  “Didn’t the PI tell you?”

  “He died,” I said. I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice, even for a dead man I liked. “Holding out for fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Don’t you see? If nobody finds this damning evidence, Kinley will have to go back to live in his house. No.” She stomped her foot. “Not as long as I breathe.”

  “If Bellan found something damning, I’ll find it, too.”

  She flung open the door. “Go, then! Find it.”

  We stood just inside the door. “I’ll be in touch. You can tell Arlo I was here, but don’t tell him I tricked the guard. He’s nice man doing his job, but I did mine better.”

  “I will not speak of this to Arlo. It makes him crazy.”

  “I’m sure. Does Kinley know her mother’s dead?”

  “Nobody knows that.”

  “Tomorrow, Tess. I take Kinley back to Atlanta with me.”

  I was getting used to doors closing firmly on my backside.

  49

  I drove to Palm Springs a little too fast, too exhilarated. I love being right, as Lake will tell you. I get high on hunches going my way. I still had a long way to go, and I needed a plan that wouldn’t get anyone else hurt or killed. These killers were stone-cold motherless bastards, hatched in hell. I didn’t know how close Tess was to danger, but I did know her good heart could easily send her to jail. I admired her courage and knew that I would do the same thing—stand my ground and tell the sons-a-bitches to bring it on.

  As for sons-a-bitches, Whitney’d rung my cell three times before I got out of sight of the HOLLYWOOD sign on the mountain. I ignored him. I hadn’t the stomach to talk to him. I hoped Lake would call, but then again, was glad he didn’t. He’d be like Portia, demanding a word-for-word report and an immediate plane ride for Kinley. Kinley was safe with Tess, I thought. If she’d been in that condo with Tess, they were both gone now. Tess would know many ways to Lost Coyote Canyon.

  Time flowed like the road ahead, a road wet with mirage. The Mozart concerto played on my cell. I looked at the display. Portia. This was her third call in ten minutes. I let the concerto die because I didn’t want to talk to her. There are few people I won’t lie to. She and Lake head the list. Not answering her call, you might say, was lying by omission, but come on, that’s picking the nit.

  Once the cell stopped playing, it flashed in my head—something was up. Portia wasn’t one to tap out a number every five minutes. I grabbed the ear bud and hit dial-back.

  “Porsh. You called.”

  “You heard from Lake?”

  “Not since yesterday.”

  “Yesterday when?”

  “Eight-thirtyish, eastern. What . . . ?”

  “Lake’s commander called.”

  “Why?” I pulled around a slow-moving car.

  “Lake hasn’t shown all day. He had an important task force meeting this morning.”

  My blood pressure dropped fifteen points. I didn’t know it could be so cold. Lake never “didn’t show,” never missed a meeting with Commander Haskell, his rabbi and friend. “You ring his loft? Anybody go there?”

  “Answering machine comes on. PD sent officers. No one.”

  Susanna. “Find his ex-wife. Linda Lake. She lives off Collier Road. Buena Vista. I don’t know the number.”

  “APD knows it.”

  “Susanna, his daughter . . .” The pickup truck ahead of me was suddenly there. My shoulders snapped forward, and I slung my rental car around his truck. His horn blared.

  “Moriah.” I heard Portia shout through the earpiece. “Pull over.”

  I straightened. “I’m all right.”

  “No, you’re not. Pull over.”

  “Get Webdog at my office. Tell him to get me out of here. I’ll be at the airport in an hour.”

  “Finish your work there. The cops will find Lake.”

  “The Cloisters.”

  “The what?”

  “Tell Commander Haskell. I don’t know how much Lake reported about our visit there, but—”

  “You and Lake went to The Cloisters. When?”

  “Tuesday night. Guest night.”

  “And?”

  “Lake got an entrée for us from a pedophile who was caught in a sting. Commander Haskell will know about it. The pedophile hanged himself. Name’s Risso. According to Lake, he was an influential businessman. It’d be in the papers.”

  “Why am I doing this?”

  “Bradley Whitney hangs out there.”

  “Did you see him?”

  I thought about the woman wearing maroon lipstick with the familiar forehead and chin. “I don’t know.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I think he may have been in drag.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “How’d you get in? It’s men only.”

  “They have women entertainers.”

  “You went as entertainment?”

  “No. As a man. Porsh, please, get off the line and get Webdog to get me out of Palm Springs.”

  She clicked off, Portia style.

  I called Whitney and got his voice mail. My ESP kicked in. I saw Whitney holding his cell, looking at the display with a supercilious smirk on his face.

  * * * * *

  The next few hours were, in retrospect, grainy, frozen impressions that kept me from drowning in fear and despair. I arrived at the Palkott and threw my things together. At the airport, I returned the rental and got to check-in. Having downed two straight gins in first class, I didn’t notice the bumpy flight. I recall keeping my heart and mind devoid of emotion. I stared out the airliner’s porthole and thought of myself as a staunch oak tree. Atlanta Police Academy training has its beneficial attributes for life after PD.

  Webdog met me at the Atlanta airport. We drove straight to City Hall East. It was nine-thirty in the evening. Portia waited in Commander Haskell’s office. No word from Lake, and they had no idea where Linda and Susanna Lake were. Commander Haskell explained, “The last anyone heard from or saw Lieutenant Lake was at three yesterday when he left here. We know he didn’t go to Frankie’s; they know him there. Linda Lake and her daughter have been gone for a week. Neighbors say it’s unusual that Linda didn’t tell them where she was going. She usually has them water the plants and t
ake in the mail.”

  Portia sat in a straight chair, angled so that she could hold both my hands. I didn’t want her to, but I let her.

  “We’ve interviewed the manager at The Cloisters,” Haskell said, drawing together his brushy eyebrows. “They have no knowledge of Richard Lake and a companion visiting there Tuesday night.” It was evident Lake hadn’t told his commander about our operation, and it was evident Haskell wasn’t happy about it.

  I said, “A man named White gave us phony names. Mr. Barton and Mr. Chapman.”

  “And you were sponsored by Casper Rossi, a member there?”

  “That’s what Lake told me, and he doesn’t make stuff up.”

  Haskell almost smiled. “Rossi told vice it was a place for rehabilitation.”

  “Some rehab,” Portia said, squeezing my trembling hands.

  “How’d you get in?” Haskell asked.

  “Disguise. Sircher’s Contour Palace.”

  He couldn’t keep from grinning. “I used to arrest Sircher when she gypped the gullible in her palmist days. After that, we had a few run-ins when she tried to establish an AC/DC whorehouse. Changed businesses before the pimps killed her.”

  “Sircher guessed I was going to The Cloisters,” I said. “She must’ve opened her mouth about it.”

  Haskell pinched his lower lip between a thumb and forefinger. “Not much Sircher doesn’t find out—but she wouldn’t open her mouth unless she got paid.”

  “Blackmail,” Portia said.

  “It’s not because of money they got Lake,” I said.

  “Who’s they?” Haskell asked.

  “Whitney and his associates at The Cloisters.”

  He sat back in his big brown leather chair. “Tell me about The Cloisters.”

  I smelled the stink of desperation seeping from my skin. “We need to find Lake.”

  “We have every man jack out looking for him. Tell me about The Cloisters.”

  I did my best to explain the evening. I ended by saying that Dr. Brommer, Whitney’s boss at Curriculum Paradigms, Inc., seemed as much a part of the place as the lighting.

  “But you didn’t see Whitney?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I answered. “I—encountered a woman there. One who was not part of the entertainment—at least she wasn’t dressed like the dancers. The light was dim, and she was heavily made up. She was my height, like Whitney.”