The Templar Map

by K R Hill

  The two patrolmen came up the stairs with weapons drawn, backs pressed against the wall, and shouted into the office.

  “I’m here. I’m Jason Dalton.”

  The cops peeked around the doorway and entered quickly, one after the other, one pointing his weapon right, the other left. When they saw the bodies, their guns turned to Dalton.

  “Easy guys, I’m a PI. I have a license. My weapon is in the drawer.” Dalton sat at the desk with his hands clasped together behind his head and motioned to the drawer with an elbow.

  “What happened?” asked a patrolman while the other spoke on his radio.

  “I’ve been told not to say anything until my attorney arrives.”

  “You think that’ll look good for you, you lawyering up so quick like that? Go stand in the corner.” The heavy-set, older cop holstered his weapon, pulled a latex glove from his pocket, and opened the desk. He reached in and lifted the weapon, held it to his nose, and sniffed.

  “Fired?” asked the other cop.

  “No.” The first one set the weapon down and walked to the commandos. “Each one was a head shot. Looks like a small-caliber weapon.” He raised his voice and asked, “You own any other weapons, Mr. Dalton?”

  “Ask my lawyer.”

  The heavy cop stood up and looked at Dalton. “What are you trying to hide with your lawyer?”

  “I’m trying to avoid being an easy target.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” mumbled the heavy cop, adjusting the gear on his belt and walking toward Dalton.

  “Back it up, Chauncey!” shouted his partner. “Everything’s on camera now, remember?” His partner tapped the camera on his vest.

  ***

  Mrs. Devonshire’s attorney met Dalton at the police station. Every question the police asked got filtered through the lawyer, and he was released in two hours.

  As Dalton was pulling on his jacket, preparing to leave, a tall, fat man approached.

  "That deli makes the best brisket in SoCal.” The fat man shoved the last of a sandwich into his mouth and brushed some crumbs from an overcoat. "Oh. Unbelievable.” He chewed with bulging red cheeks.

  Dalton tried to move past, but the guy blocked his path.

  "Who are you?” Dalton demanded.

  The fat man wagged a finger. "Oh, excuse me. Harvey Lowenthal. Special Agent Lowenthal. FBI, Art Theft Unit. I’ve been on the trail of a black-market antiquities ring for two years. Two days ago, I got a tip that this man entered the country.” He opened a black folder and held up a photo.

  The guy looked ten years younger and still had a bit of hair up top, but Dalton recognized the man that only hours earlier had killed two men in his office. He returned the photo. “Mister, I don’t know you from Adam.”

  “Do you recognize this?” The fat man opened his identification.

  Dalton took it and weighed the badge and said: “That guy in your photo left two bodies in my office. Each kill was a head shot, small-caliber revolver. That sound familiar?”

  “Very. His name is Uri Dent. He’s a killer.”

  “Good luck with that.” Dalton stepped around.

  Special agent Lowenthal shoved a night stick against Dalton’s chest. “I’m out of patience, so why don’t you—”

  Dalton ripped the night stick out of the man’s grasp. “I’m a private citizen and you just assaulted me, Special Agent. I’m sure there’s cameras here that caught the entire thing. My attorney would love to see the footage.” He dropped the stick on the floor.

  The agent smiled. “I needed your prints. Looks like I’ve got them now.” He bent over with a sigh and picked up the night-stick. “Your history came back sketchy. False identities look sketchy like that. Now I can check.”

  “You want my help, and you threaten me?” Dalton shook his head.

  “Listen, Uri is on your trail. He’s a person of interest in seven murders. They call him the Snake. The victims never see him coming. You should see what he did to a professor in Chicago.”

  "I need to get to my client.”

  “What does your client have, Dalton? What is valuable enough to make Uri enter the US?”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “Listen, asshole,” said Lowenthal. “The feeling’s mutual. If Uri is on your trail, you’re going to need my help soon rather than later. When you do, call this number.” He reached beneath a knit scarf and took out a business card.

  Dalton flipped a thumb across a missing corner. “What happened to this? Did you get hungry?”

  "I needed a toothpick.”

  Dalton tossed the card to the floor and walked away.

  “We’re going to talk again,” called the agent. “Count on that."

  Chapter 8

  Wong’s sat in the sand between two groups of palm trees. The restaurant was nothing more than a trailer covered with 1950s beige paint that left a milky residue on your pants when you brushed against it. The locals loved the diner because it reminded them of a simpler time. They could sit at the bar and look out and see nothing but beach and parking lot, and that made them feel as though they had escaped the city. It was the best thing about Wong’s, and it wasn’t even on the menu.

  A misty rain began falling as Dalton crossed the parking lot. The mist turned into droplets when he was twenty feet from the diner. As he opened the front door of Wong’s, rain began tapping on the tin roof.

  Toward the rear of the diner sat Nick in one of the booths. Dalton hurried through the restaurant and stepped out the back door.

  After a few minutes, Nick walked onto the back porch with a glass of water in his hand.

  “I’m glad you remembered this place,” said Dalton.

  “Don’t say a word. Give me your phone.” Nick grabbed Dalton’s cell and dropped it into the water then pushed it down with his fingers. Water spilled on his shoes. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. Those guys that stormed the office were not playing around. We don’t know what kind of electronic gear they have.”

  “Oh, man.” Dalton touched the glass. “No, you’re right, but it’s hard.”

  “Come on, I got the information you wanted.”

  They sat in a corner booth that felt sticky here and there. A young Asian girl with bright eyes and long black hair typed their order on an iPad, and hurried away. A moment later, she came back with a pot of coffee, set a couple cups on the table, and filled them.

  Dalton watched her walk away. “Is Sophie Devonshire safe?” he asked.

  “Yes. I dropped her at her house.”

  “Good. But that attack wasn’t all about the case. Those first two guys were after me. They were military.”

  “Yeah, no shit. And I got something special if they send more people.” Nick set a folded newspaper on the table. He looked around and unfolded it, revealing an army .45. “My daddy fought with that in Vietnam. Next time I won’t be shooting bean bags.”

  “You don’t have a permit to carry that thing. Have you ever fired a .45? You’ll probably blow your own foot off.” Dalton chuckled.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see.”

  “This case is sizzling. The bald guy, he was a pro. Did you see the way he handled himself?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were some kind of military hitman?”

  For a moment Dalton didn’t move. Then he said, “Ah, the computer whiz has been digging.”

  “I got shot. I saw two murders. You’re damn right I did some digging.”

  “My unit had a security breech. I chose to protect my family by playing dead. The DOD gave me a new identity.”

  “And that woman?”

  Dalton sat his coffee cup down hard. “Now you’re getting personal. You’re enjoying this.”

  “A lot.” Nick smiled and leaned over the table.

  “Is there anything you can’t find on that damn computer?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Yep. Her name was all over your military records. That base, what’s the name of it? You
two lived together there. Who is Jax?”

  Dalton looked at the ceiling. “We met when we were fifteen. She was—

  She was like a song that made me feel good. My only hit. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  “What happened?”

  “That breach happened. We’d been taking out top cartel members in South America. Then two members of my unit got murdered. I had to decide if I wanted to put Jax in harm’s way, and constantly worry about when one of the cartel men would find her. I chose to die and vanish. If I was dead, she’d be safe. The DOD set it up.”

  “So, you died and got a new identity.”

  “Yes. Now tell me about the case. Or is there more private stuff you want to ask me?”

  “Man, I wish there was.”

  Nick took two envelopes from the booth and dropped them on the table. From one he pulled some papers. “Sophie Devonshire: she seems pretty legit. Her family is old money, married into it. Her husband was an archaeologist of some renown, wrote a couple books. Everything seems to check out.” Nick waved a hand over the papers.

  What about the artifact?”

  Nick nodded about six times, as though he’d had too much caffeine, picked up the second envelope and opened it. “This is where it goes sideways. I searched all over the net.”

  “Why are you so excited?”

  “Because this artifact thing is freaking hot. I sent a notice to some PhD guy on a forum, and people were tracking me down within a minute. Hell, I was on a library computer, and they still got my phone number. That means major resources.” Nick leaned over the table, his chin six inches above it. “Someone is spending a lot of time and money to find that thing.”

  “When Sophie Devonshire was in the office, remember what she said?”

  “She found it among her husband’s things.”

  “She tried to find out what it was and got threatened and robbed. Someone wants it badly.” Dalton snapped back in his seat, pulled out his automatic and ejected the clip, and counted the bullets. “Get your gun!”

  “Now?” Nick knocked over his cup and looked around, tried to jump out of his seat but hit the table and dropped onto his butt. He pointed the .45 here and there.

  “Keep it under the table. That back door just opened four inches and closed.” Dalton searched the diner. At the counter sat a guy slurping soup. His hair stuck out straight like it hadn’t been brushed in days. Two stools down from the hair guy sat a fat man in shorts. His puffy pink legs made Dalton look away.

  And then, out across the parking lot, he saw the vehicle that he didn’t want to see: a black Porsche SUV crossing the lot with its lights turned off. It parked facing the diner.

  “Is that .45 loaded?”

  Nick’s eyes got big. “Oh, hell, yes it’s loaded. I got four extra clips too. The .45 is about to win the West again.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  Nick wobbled his head about like he was all embarrassed and shoved his hair back over an ear with the muzzle of the pistol.

  “Holy crap! You’re going to blow your ear off. Keep that thing down,” said Dalton, rocking on his elbows. “Are you ready for this?”

  “That won’t happen again, boss. I’m sorry.”

  Two more black SUVs rolled into the parking lot and moved into position facing the diner.

  “Those SUVs are cutting off our escape route,” said Dalton. “I need you to take the guy at the back door. If he raises a weapon, you shoot to kill. Got it? It’s the guy you shoot in the leg that kills you.”

  Dalton slid out of the booth, pulled off his jacket and covered his weapon. As he climbed to his feet the front door opened and an attractive woman walked in.

  She stood five foot eight, Dalton guessed, and weighed 110 pounds. She had short black hair that almost touched her pinstripe jacket. In one ear sat a microphone with a curly wire that disappeared beneath her collar.

  “Oh, the rain. I got wet,” she said, and slowly removed her jacket. She nodded to Dalton and turned in a circle, holding her arms up. Then she showing walked to the wall and hung her jacket on a hook.

  As she approached, he backed up a few steps and allowed her to sit at the booth.

  “Let’s sit down and have a little talk, shall we?” The woman patted the table top and pointed a finger at the seat across from her.

  “You’re not a cop or the FBI. I would’ve seen a badge by now if you were. That means you’re on the other side of the line. And I’m guessing the men in those SUVs have their fingers on some high-dollar weapons.”

  Through the pass-through window into the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Chow set the plates of food so their daughter could hand them to customers, Dalton saw Mr. Chow peek out. Mrs. Chow was speaking loudly in the background. Maybe Chow’s diner had become trendy in the last couple years, with university kids driving down from USC and some of the young movie star kids cruising in from Malibu for late-night beers, but the clientele in the diner now were used to the street. The guy with dirty hair took one look at Dalton, his jacket draped over one arm, and dropped his eating utensils and headed for the door. The fat man with pink leg ran after while still chewing. Mr. Chow came through the kitchen door and grabbed his daughter by the shoulder. He pulled her away from the register and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Jason Dalton. That’s the name you go by now, isn’t it?” The woman looked at him with a little smirk.

  Dalton jumped on top of her and grabbed the microphone from her ear and ripped the cord off. He shoved her across the booth and sat down beside her. “I don’t give a damn about names. Who the hell are you working for?”

  Her first punch cut Dalton’s cheek and snapped his head back.

  He blocked the second and shoved the muzzle of the 9-mm into her nose, and spit blood on her blouse. “You hit like a girl.”

  Two loud shots rattled the windows.

  The woman jumped.

  Without moving his eyes from the woman’s face, Dalton called, “Nick, are you hit?”

  Chapter 9

  Nick laughed. “I’m okay. My .45 gets two thumbs up on Facebook. I blasted a hole right through the side of the trailer. Some sneaky little guy pointed a machine gun at me.”

  “Is he still out there?”

  “His body is.”

  The woman took a deep breath and swallowed; she folded her hands on the table. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I represent the Israeli government. I’ve been sent to retrieve an artifact that was stolen from my country.”

  “That’s a good story. Governments go through diplomatic channels, though.” Dalton patted her down, ran his hand over her arms and around her waist.

  She jerked when he reached between her legs.

  “I watched a friend get sliced up because he was too shy to check for weapons between a woman’s legs,” he said.

  She cursed in Hebrew and closed her eyes. “There, are you satisfied?”

  “I don’t take chances with my life.”

  “Are you going to put the gun away?” she said.

  “No. If you move, I’m going to ruin your silk blouse.”

  “You have such a way with words. Mr. Dalton, we know you were hired to find Solomon’s Key. It belongs to the people of Israel. I am going to take it into custody and return it to its rightful owner.”

  “And that rightful owner, would that be a private party, a rich person, maybe a general?”

  “My employer wants to remain anonymous. Now I’m going to signal my associates, and they’re going to take away our dead friend.” The woman raised her arm and made a circle in the air, as though twirling a lasso.

  Out in the parking lot, a door opened and two men jumped out of one of the SUVs wearing military fatigues. They trotted over and disappeared behind the diner. After a moment they came back into view dragging the dead man.

  “I’m sure the police have been alerted. They’re probably en route. You’ve got one driveway to exit. I think you’re going to get a sur
prise on your way out,” said Dalton.

  The woman smiled with amusement in her eyes. “The police can’t search a diplomat’s vehicle.”

  “You’re not a diplomat. You’re a hired thug with diplomatic immunity. Big difference. If I find you in my client’s house or on her property, I’ll kill you.” Dalton shoved his weapon into its holster.

  “There are six words in Hebrew that describe you perfectly.” The woman slid across the booth, pushed off the table, and stood up, then hurried through the restaurant.

  As the SUVs turned on their lights and rolled across the parking lot, Nick came out of the shadows and sat down.

  Dalton watched the taillights disappear. “I got a feeling we need to watch Sophie Devonshire’s house tonight,” he said.

  “Are you talking about hiding in bushes, with bugs and reptiles and mice sneaking around where you can’t even see them?”

  “Pretty much. I don’t think Mrs. Devonshire knows what she’s gotten into.”

  “Or maybe she knows, and she’s playing us.” Nick lifted the .45 and sniffed the muzzle.

  “Man, Nick, what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dalton laughed. “Your forehead is bleeding.”

  “The gun kicked so hard it hit me in the head. Don’t laugh. It hurts.”

  ***

  After they left the diner, Nick searched with his phone, made some calls and found that Sophie Devonshire was staying in her Long Beach residence, tucked away on Naples Island, in the middle of Alamitos Bay.

  By the time they drove to Naples the sun was setting. Behind the high-rises of downtown, the last rays of sunlight turned thin wisps of cloud orange and red.

  Sophie Devonshire’s long box house sat squeezed between houses on three sides. A sidewalk separated the tiny front yard from a canal.

  Dalton walked down the sidewalk. “I have to park a block away,” he told Nick. “The neighbors are close enough to touch. How am I supposed to watch her house without being seen?”

  Nick stared at a boat gliding along the canal. “Maybe we should get one of those.”

  Dalton followed his gesture. “Schnauzer Rentals,” he read.