The Templar Map

by K R Hill

  “Nick, where is that file that you started on Gregory?”

  Mr. Singh walked over to Nick’s table and picked up a file. “I found this file and did some digging before you two gentlemen returned. That is what I do best: I spend twelve hours a day digging around online, doing research, and have developed excellent digging skills. This Mr. Gregory that you mentioned works out of a run-down commercial building downtown.”

  Nick hurried over and picked up the file and read. “Whoa, Singh, that’s pretty good research! Maybe we should keep you around for a while.”

  “The first thing in the morning, I’m going to go on a little hunting expedition. And like I told Nick before, I need you both to stay here while I’m gone. You’re not going to hear from me, okay? As soon as I get back, we’ll finish tracking down the Key. Nick, while I’m gone I need you to prepare a list of possibilities, where Devonshire may have stored that thing. I need safety deposit boxes, storage facilities, rented apartments or houses, anything. Let’s finish this.”

  Mr. Singh scooped up a helping of rice onto a paper plate, added some of the vegetables and curry. “Okay, Mr. Nick, this first one is for you.”

  Nick took the plate and moved it in a circle under his nose. “Oh, boy, that smells good.”

  “And when you come back from your little expedition, Mr. Dalton, we should drive out to that underground warehouse in San Pedro. That sounds like the most promising place to hide the Key.”

  “How did you find out about that, Singh?”

  “How did I find out? I found the list of the Devonshire properties here on Mr. Nick’s desk. He had drawn a star beside the property in San Pedro, and that made me curious, so I drove out to the Hall of Records and made some inquiries. Anyone with brains could have done the same thing.”

  ***

  Dalton sacked out on the sofa.

  The glass in the front door shattered, and small pieces flew into the office and scattered across the floor as though a child had dropped a bag of marbles. Dalton jumped up from the desk with his 9 mm in his hand, but the sight of six men wearing FBI jackets, all pointing shotguns, took away all thought of pulling the trigger.

  “Okay, I’m putting the weapon down.”

  The lights snapped on, and into the office walked a clean-cut man in his late thirties. His blonde hair was cut so short on the sides that you could see his scalp. Up on top, it was long and covered with an oil that made it shine. His head snapped right and left as he shouted orders and strutted across the office, shoving a Beretta into his shoulder holster. “Jason Dalton, I have a warrant to search your office and to take you into custody,” he announced.

  The agents shoved Dalton to the ground. One held a shotgun barrel to his head, while another clamped handcuffs on his wrists. They left him there on the cold tile floor.

  “Well if it isn’t the feds. Did you get all heartbroken because I insulted Agent Lowenthal?”

  “No,” said the blonde. “I’m here to arrest a murderer. You’re being charged with murder one.”

  Dalton rolled onto his side and struggled to sit up. He managed to get up on one knee and then to stand. He looked around the office for Nick and Singh, but they were gone.

  Agents collected Nick’s laptop and all the files that they could pack into boxes. One of them kicked the wok out of the way, and sent it sliding across the floor.

  “And who am I supposed to have killed?”

  “Agent Howard Morbund, who we found stuffed in a trunk in San Pedro. Does that ring any bells?”

  “And who are you? Where is Lowenthal? Did he eat too much to get out of bed this morning?”

  “I’m Agent Trent. My superiors sent me from DC to take over this investigation. It seems Mr. Morbund, or Agent Morbund, was at one time in charge of the Arts Crime Unit. And we found two nice clean prints on the trunk the body was found in. Do you care to guess whose prints they were?”

  ***

  In between his lawyer visit, and waiting to be arraigned, Dalton had a lot of time to think. There in the holding cell, with inmates pacing around him, whispering to one another, the sound of the guards shouting down the corridor, keys rattling, electronic switches being triggered to open cells, he thought over the chain of events that had led him here. The case had turned a hundred and eighty degrees and bitten him like a snake. Dalton remembered being in the basement, starting at one corner of the trunk and wiping it down thoroughly, removing any trail from himself to the dead body. There were no prints there. He knew that. The only possible explanation was that someone had entered the basement after him and planted his prints.

  Eventually two FBI agents came walking down the corridor, escorted by the police jailer. They opened the door and told Dalton to turn around so they could clamp on the handcuffs. He was led through the station and down several corridors, up a flight of stairs. He almost laughed when they opened an interrogation room door and shoved him inside, because it looked like the interrogation room used from every cop show he’d ever seen. In the center stood a wooden table that was bolted to the floor. Across the table was a metal bar they clamped his handcuffs to. On the wall facing the table was a huge mirror.

  This wasn’t normal. Dalton knew that. Prisoners were not taken and interrogated without their attorney unless national security was at stake. Word of those bundles of cash he had found must have reached people in high positions. The paintings were mixed up in the whole mess too, the mess he walked into when he took the case. But now the paintings were out of the picture. He had taken care of that. But cash had a way of changing loyalties and ethical boundaries for cops and civilians alike. Knowing where a large amount of cash was…well, that was as tempting as the drop-dead gorgeous woman who whispers in your ear as she sets her room key on the bar and pushes it in your direction.

  Dalton didn’t know how this was going to go. He didn’t think they could pound on him or slowly torture him for answers, not in a police station. That would have to be done somewhere off the books. He would disappear during a transfer, or a faked breakout would be staged for the benefit of the press. Then they’d be able to work on him. Nonetheless, Dalton sat up straight, placed his feet firmly on the floor, and got himself ready for the worst.

  In the Army he had seen interrogations done thousands of times. He’d also been trained in how to survive one. The secret to disrupting an interrogation was as simple as replaying a song. He’d just keep one song playing in his head and sing it when he needed to. That was the easiest way in the world not to get caught up in all the stress and fear and panic that the interrogator was trying to inflict to get the information he wanted.

  He didn’t have to worry about his story, because the only thing he was going to say was the magic phrase: I want a lawyer. That would be his response to every single question they were going to ask, regardless. If he felt intimidated or afraid, he’d just keep repeating it.

  The only thing he needed now was a song he could keep going back to. And there really wasn’t any choice. It was an oldie that had been playing the first night he had slept with Jax: Me and Bobby McGee” by Janis Joplin. As soon as the lyrics started playing in his head, he started tapping his fingers on the table, remembering that night, remembering the smile in her eyes. And that made him laugh. Even though he was handcuffed to a table, part of Dalton had left the room.

  The door opened and an overweight cop who was trying to suck in his gut to keep it from hanging over his belt, carried in a Styrofoam cup of coffee and set it on the table. Beside it he dropped a folder filled with papers.

  “You’re going down for this one, Dalton. We got your fingerprints on a trunk with a dead body in it. Not even going to offer you a deal. You’re going to do hard time, and the boys up there are going to pay you some special attention.”

  Dalton smiled and tapped rhythm on the table and stared at the wall past the guy who was trying so hard to loom large and fearsome in front of him. In a soft voice he sang, “From the Kentucky coal mines, to the California sun…”


  He was holding all the cards. He knew that. The only reason he was in that room was because he had something they wanted. And the farther that room was from the main interrogation rooms, the farther hidden away he was, the more they wanted what he had.

  The cop leaned down close to Dalton. “What the fuck did you just say?”

  “I said I want my lawyer.”

  “People in hell want ice water, boy, but they don’t get it. Ever been up to the big house there, Dalton?”

  Dalton sang another verse and tapped his fingers on the table.

  “Hey!” The cop smacked him upside the head. “I’m talking to you, jackass. Who the hell do you think you are, singing when I’m speaking to you?”

  There was a tap on the mirror, and the door opened. Into the interrogation room walked a woman in her thirties with blonde hair that almost touched her shoulders. Around her neck on a thick cord hung her name badge. But Dalton didn’t need to read the name.

  It was Jax. His heart beat pounded in his ears. He wanted to jump up and wrap his arms around her, explain everything. But people he did not know were watching.

  This presented an entirely different set of problems. In a flash he realized that he had to act as though he did not know her. She did not say his name. Nor did she look at him directly. It was very difficult, but he knew people were watching, so he forced himself to not shift his stare from the wall for more than a second.

  “Sergeant,” said the woman, “if I ever see you strike a prisoner again, I don’t care if your captain is standing behind that mirror. I will do everything in my power to have your badge before the end of the day. Is that clear?”

  The fat sergeant hoisted his belt and turned to the mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m taking over this interrogation.”

  He grumbled something and rounded up his paperwork, picked up his cup of coffee and threw it against the wall and marched out of the room.

  Jax took an entirely different approach. She sat on the edge of the table and shuffled through the paperwork. “I’m sorry about that officer. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  He knew he had to maintain the interrogation strategy he had been using before she entered the room. Dalton didn’t know who was behind the mirror observing their interaction, but he had to assume there was more than one high-ranking officer there.

  He tapped his fingers on the table and sang a few lines.

  “My name is Jax Taylor. I work for the district attorney’s office. I’ve been sent to determine whether you’re going to stand trial. However, it seems that you may possess knowledge of the whereabouts of certain artworks that are extremely valuable and wanted in foreign countries. If you are willing to divulge this information or help the authorities locate these artworks, there may be a deal I could work out for you.”

  Jax read a list of the charges. She went over and over the questions regarding the basement and the body that had been found and whether or not the dead FBI agent had any connection with Dalton.

  That was what she was supposed to do. Dalton, however, continued his game of staring at the wall, tapping his fingers.

  At some point during the questioning Jax raised her hand and brushed her cheek. On that hand she was wearing the ring Dalton had given her years before. Not only was she wearing it, but she must have been pushing it with her thumb, because the ring moved about on her finger. She only did it for a moment, when she was turned with her back to the mirror, and had positioned herself at the exact spot in the room where she would not be seen on camera.

  It was a message. It had to be.

  ***

  Three hours later, Dalton was sitting in a holding cell. The electronic latch on his cell door sounded with a loud noise, and the door popped open an inch or two and continued to slide open. He looked up to see two jailers standing there. One of them held a clipboard with a bunch of papers. He sorted through the papers and called Dalton’s name.

  “Jason Dalton, you made bail. You’re a free man.”

  “Who paid?”

  Nick and Singh were waiting when he came through the metal door and out into the public area.

  “How’d you pay the bail?” he asked.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Nick as they walked down the steps and out into the fresh air. “It was Singh.”

  “You bailed me out?”

  Singh raised his hands into the air above his head. “Yes, because I am working with an American detective. It is so exciting. But I’m looking at big picture here with Solomon’s Key. Don’t think it’s because I want to sleep on your cold tile floor and make rice and curry in your ugly office. Okay?”

  “Don’t hold back, okay? Just say what you really think,” said Dalton.

  “What happened back there, boss?” asked Nick, but got no response as they walked out of the station.

  They hurried around the block and walked to the parking garage. Somewhere a car alarm was going off.

  “We have a couple of new twists to this case,” said Dalton as they neared the car. “First of all, that commander had two motives for coming into our office. Not only was he there to offer us a partnership, but he got my fingerprints. All he had to do was grab a pen or a paperweight. Then he had fingerprints to plant wherever he wanted. I thought I was turning the tables on him by getting his squad to go trample about on that crime scene where the body was. But it looks like he took out the competition by sticking one of my fingerprints beside the body.”

  They climbed into Singh’s rental car. At the first light they came to, their way was blocked when the security barrier came down and allowed the trolley to pass.

  “And what’s the other twist?” said Nick.

  “That one’s a little harder to take. I think Sophie Devonshire has lawyered up. That means she has most likely been advised to distance herself from us. I suspect her attorney is trying to shift blame for the murder to yours truly, and portray her as the innocent, unaware landowner.”

  “And the artifact? How are we going to find it?” As always, Singh shook a hand in the air as he spoke.

  Once they got back to the neighborhood, Singh slowed down and cruised along in the right-hand lane, searching for a parking spot.

  “Why don’t you let me out here?” Dalton rolled his window down and looked up and down the sidewalk.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Nick.

  “Did you bring my backup?” Dalton turned and looked into the backseat.

  “Yeah, I have it.” Nick leaned forward and reached under the seat and came up with a revolver wrapped in a white towel. “Are you sure this thing will even fire anymore?”

  Dalton took the pistol, pressed the lever on the side that allowed the cylinder to drop open, and made sure it was loaded. With his thumb he spun the cylinders and flipped the weapon to one side so that the cylinder snapped into firing position. “It’ll work. Don’t worry about that. You guys need to go back to the office and do all the research you can about that artifact. If we find it, the Italians and Israelis will go away. Then I can concentrate on this bogus murder charge.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going dark. You’re not going to hear from me.”

  “What should I do with that suitcase if you don’t come back?” asked Nick, shoving his hair back.

  Dalton opened his door and climbed out. He leaned down in close to Nick. “Well, pay back Singh, take care of Jax, too. Then, you’re gunna pack it up into a backpack, and walk across the border. Maybe you can open your own detective agency somewhere.” He clapped Nick on the shoulder and hurried away.

  Chapter 19

  What do you say to your dream woman? Dalton didn’t know. For two years he had kept a vision of Jax in his head. He had replayed the memories so many times that now he wondered if he had mixed fantasy with reality and created a perfect woman who had never really existed. If that was the case, he accepted it. He wanted to see her in that cheerleader outfit, needed to remember her lying beside him,
gazing with loving eyes.

  He went to those memories as he sat on the bench in Little India. Women walked along Artesia Boulevard wearing saris. Men wore business suits and sandals and called to children who ran about the sidewalk. Even out here in the open air he could smell aromas drifting from restaurants along the street, restaurants that brought Indians to this area from as far away as Moor Park, Thousand Oaks, and Dana Point.

  He was amazed to see that the little jewelry shop was still there. How many years ago was it that he had played hooky from school and come down this way with Ted? That day, they had seen a little window display. And on a small black felt tray that held few other rings, sat the ring that was now on Jax’s finger. The way she’d moved the ring in the interrogation room had to have been a message. Either it was a clever way to signal him, to send a message that no one else would pick up on, or she was scratching her finger, and that made the ring moved about. He was going to find out in just a few minutes.

  Moments later, Jax came walking down the street from the north and paused in front of a window. Gone was the business suit she had been wearing, the pinstripe slacks and the stiff white shirt beneath the vest. Jax was always cold, that much he remembered. And even now, on a pleasant SoCal evening, when the temperature barely got below seventy, she wore tight Levi’s and a big loose sweater that looked fuzzy even from across the street.

  Dalton walked a big loop along the street and checked twenty times to make sure they were not followed. He headed over a block and then behind a couple restaurants, and there he turned back through the parking lot behind the jewelry store and walked up the alley between a clothing store and a market. He made an effort to walk quietly, being careful where he placed each foot in the loose gravel, trying not to kick any rocks that would shoot up ahead of him and warn anybody out past the shadows, anyone up ahead on the sidewalk. When he came into the light he slowed his pace until she looked over. Then he turned back into the passageway and out into the parking lot.