The Undead Kama Sutra fg-3

by Mario Acevedo

  Carmen?

  Was it a trick?

  She pounded the door. “You owe me five hours of sex and if you don’t open this fucking door right now, it’ll be ten.”

  It was Carmen.

  My fangs and talons retracted. I freed the deadbolt, swung the door open, and winced in surprise.

  Carmen had a blond helmet of hair that spilled around her face and curled back up where it touched her shoulders. The artificial sheen made her skin seem dark as hot caramel. Her orange aura looked like a scoop taken from the sun.

  A pair of large sunglasses with white rectangular frames was stuck into the wig. She wore a white sleeveless dress with wide yellow stripes. The skirt ballooned around her hips and the hemline orbited her knees. This was a very un-Carmen getup but there was no hiding that smile or those sparkling eyes.

  “Well, aren’t you going to let me in?” Her lacquered red lips twisted into a devilish grin. “Partner.”

  Chapter

  28

  I stepped aside. “How’d you find me?”

  “Your credit card.” She strutted past me on high-heeled pumps that matched the yellow stripes of her dress. An enormous leather tote bag hung from her right shoulder. “Better be careful. If I could find you this easy, what about Goodman?”

  “I’m aware of him.”

  Carmen dropped the bag on the floor by my bed and settled on the mattress. Her dress crinkled like crepe paper. She raised her heels out of her pumps and kicked the shoes into the air. One of the pumps landed between my feet, the other clattered against the wall.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said. “Make yourself at home. Before we discuss the ‘partner’ thing, what’s with the outfit? The last time a woman dressed like you, Sputnik was orbiting the Earth.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘Carmen, you look great, as usual’?” Carmen took the sunglasses from her hair. “This, since you asked, is a getaway disguise.” She tossed the sunglasses on the bedspread. “I was visiting a chalice in Washington, DC, and for the sake of brevity let’s say that we were almost caught in the Smithsonian museum.”

  “Caught doing what?”

  Carmen removed the plastic bangles from her wrist and let them rattle in a heap on the sunglasses. “Doing field research for my Kama Sutra book.”

  “And this outfit belongs to the Smithsonian?”

  “Not anymore.” Carmen propped back on her arms. “I would have preferred to exit au naturel but in this post-9/11 world, walking around naked in the nation’s capital could be construed as an act of terrorism. Wouldn’t be worth the hassle.”

  Carmen stretched her stockinged legs and circled her feet. “Which brings the story to you.” She pointed her toes at me. The nails alternated yellow and white. “Partner.”

  “Let’s get this straight. I have no partner.”

  Carmen yanked the wig from her head. She threw the wig at me. “Yes you do. Now shut up for a minute and listen to me.”

  I caught the wig. In my hand, it looked like the pelt of a golden retriever and smelled of Chanel and Aquanet.

  Carmen’s natural hair had been plastered into a glossy black skullcap. “I have news.”

  I set the wig on the dresser. “What kind of news?”

  Carmen gave a teasing smirk. “The kind of news I’d only share with a partner.”

  “It better be good.”

  “First, say the P-word.”

  The request confused me. “You mean, ‘please’?”

  “No, I mean ‘partner.’”

  “Let’s hear the info first.”

  “Nope.” Carmen cupped a hand behind an ear. A diamond stud earring caught the light. “I’m ready.”

  No point in arguing with her; I’d be better off arm-wrestling a squid. “Okay. Partner.”

  Carmen smiled victoriously. “I have the lowdown on Dan Goodman.” She let the smile linger.

  “You were going to keep this a secret?”

  “Not from a partner. Are you ready? Our mysterious Dan Goodman was an assassin for the U.S. government.”

  I had a problem believing that anyone could rise to the rank of bird colonel because he was handy with a nine iron. But to hear that Goodman was Uncle Sam’s hired killer defied comprehension. “Are we talking about the retired colonel Dan Goodman? The golf pro at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic?”

  Carmen nodded. “None other. Here’s his public résumé. West Point graduate. Spent his career in the army’s Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Command.”

  Carmen tugged at one of her bangs and stared at it cross-eyed. “His golfing was simply cover. Most of his time he was getting ‘sheep-dipped.’ That meant being discharged from the army and doing something dirty for the CIA. Afterward, he’d go back into the army. Technically then, the army never had an assassin on their payroll and the CIA could say, ‘Dan Goodman who?’”

  Instead of clarifying matters, this information only stirred up the muck. “How did you find out about this?”

  “One of my chalices works for the Directorate of Operations in the CIA. If anyone in the government would know about an army colonel doing funny business, it would be that chalice. He’s one of those spooks with a silly top-secret clearance. As if he wouldn’t tell me anything I wanted to know.”

  “And you went to see him about my investigation?”

  “That and to have him and his wife contribute to my book. That’s how we ended up naked in the museum.”

  “Spare me those details. Right now, tell me more about Goodman.”

  “Years ago my chalice gave the then-major Dan Goodman a target folder of one Olivia Martinez-Cisneros.”

  “Target folder?”

  “It’s a dossier the government keeps on people it wants to get rid of.”

  “I’ve never heard of this Martinez-Cisneros. Why keep a target folder on her?”

  Carmen folded her right leg and massaged her foot. “Olivia was a lawyer helping peasants in Ecuador fight the oil companies trying to take their land. At the time she was small potatoes but had a lot of potential. So Olivia had to go before she became a threat.”

  I tried to imagine the cold stare in Goodman’s eyes as he snuffed out her life.

  “Olivia was shot during a robbery, and on the way to the hospital,” Carmen said, “a medic administered the wrong medicine and she died. A medic, incidentally, that no one had seen before or since.”

  “Goodman?”

  “You connect the dots. Either he killed her or planned the hit.”

  “If Goodman is that expert an assassin, why didn’t the government sic him on Osama bin Laden or Kim Song Il?”

  Carmen stretched panther-like on the bedcovers. “Using an assassin is a lot like our vampire powers. You have to be careful when you use them. Attacking a high-profile target might be too much of a risk. Even if you succeed, your target could end up becoming a martyr and even more dangerous as a symbol.”

  “Perhaps your scholarly pursuits can provide an insight into this.” I told Carmen about Vanessa and Janice, the two missing airline passengers, and what happened in Kansas City, including the murder of Karen Beck. When I got to the part about dunking myself into the Missouri River and escaping through the sewers, Carmen was quiet for a moment. Then her calm expression broke apart and she laughed.

  I didn’t see myself as comic relief. “What would you have done?”

  Carmen pulled the bobby pins from her hair. “Not gone into the river. I can’t imagine what that would’ve done to my clothes. But then again, you being a guy.”

  “Let’s stick to the case,” I said. “Suppose Goodman did kill Marissa. Why?”

  “That I think I can answer. I made a detour to Marissa’s office in Minneapolis. She was a PI, remember? Her office had been ransacked but I did find her sister. She told me-under hypnosis, because I didn’t want her to remember that I’d been there-that Marissa had been hired to find a missing woman, Naomi Peyton, and followed a lead to Key West.”

  “And this Naomi Peyton is connected
to Goodman?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Carmen dug her fingers under the cap of stiff hair, like she was working a shingle loose. “There are a lot of loose threads here. You said Vanessa’s and Janice’s bodies were missing from the morgue in the hangar. Yet the officials said they were dead, though your friend…” Carmen glanced at me.

  “Her name was Karen Beck.”

  Carmen continued, “Karen said Vanessa and Janice never boarded the airliner.”

  All this information was a pile of facts I couldn’t quite fit together.

  Carmen scratched her scalp. She closed her eyes and a pensive expression settled over her face. “Goodman went to Chicago the day before the crash as a consultant with RKW for the feds. So either it’s a coincidence that he was there or Goodman’s a psychic or…” Carmen let the thought drift.

  Or, or…what?

  She wiped the flakes of dried hair gel from her fingertips. “How many people were on that commuter airliner?”

  “Nineteen, including the crew of three.” I remembered the pictures of the dead inside the trailer.

  “Maybe,” Carmen let a talon sprout from one index finger and used the point to clean her other fingernails, “what Gilbert Odin said about saving the Earth women is not about them getting killed but about something else entirely. Think about it. Vanessa and Janice are missing. As is Naomi Peyton.”

  “Meaning they’re not dead?”

  “That’s what we want to find out. The mysterious aspect about Naomi was that her car went off the road, killing her husband. And she’s missing.”

  “Sounds like a wife who got tired of her husband,” I said.

  “Felix, if it were that easy, why are we going in circles?” Carmen asked. “Marissa discovers a lead on Naomi that takes her to Key West and the next thing we know, she’s dead from a blaster wound.”

  Carmen reached into her bra and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Here’s Marissa’s cell phone number. Can you access her phone records?”

  I took the paper and read the number. It had a 612 area code. “Consider it done.”

  Carmen winked. “And you didn’t want me for a partner.”

  “That’s three missing that we know of,” I said. “Naomi from a car crash. Vanessa and Janice when the commuter airliner went down.”

  “Then where did they go?” Carmen asked. “And why would the officials lie about them? Don’t forget the other plane wreck. How many of those passengers aren’t dead but alive and missing?”

  Trying to understand this case was like kneading a ball of hard clay. My brain started to cramp from the effort. I leaned against the bureau and rubbed my fingers against my forehead. “Was their disappearance a kidnapping? If so, could that justify the murder of all those people?”

  “Maybe it’s the stakes involved?” Carmen lay on the bedcover and looked at the ceiling. “Notice that Odin said ‘Earth women,’ not simply ‘women.’ And he is an alien.”

  “Was an alien,” I corrected. “He’s in the past tense, remember?”

  “Is that the clue? That Odin was an alien? He was killed with a blaster.”

  I caught on to Carmen’s reasoning. “Let’s accept that Goodman was Odin’s assassin. Goodman used a blaster to kill an alien. Why not shoot him with a regular pistol?”

  Carmen sat up and looked at me. “Could it be that Goodman is an alien as well?” Her eyes sparkled with renewed insight.

  “I don’t think so. Odin referred to him as a man.”

  Carmen slumped her shoulders in disappointment.

  I asked, “Did you ask your chalice about the ray gun?”

  “I did. Under hypnosis, to keep the question a deep secret. But…” Carmen finished the thought by shaking her head.

  “What about the ‘Earth women’? Is this a plot to kidnap them?” I asked. “All of them? Or just a few?”

  Carmen added another question. “And why?”

  I told her about the secret annex behind the main hotel and how the GPS disabled my golf cart. I described the annex, its array of NASA-style antennas, and the arrival of a military helicopter.

  “What kind of a compound is it?” Carmen asked. “If it’s so secret, why build it behind the hotel?” Her aura glowed a bit warmer, the psychic equivalent of a wry smile. “Well then, Mister PI, what about this? I know why you’re in this motel and not the Sapphire Grand Atlantic. Ever hear of the G8?”

  I answered, “That’s the Group of Eight, right? The organization of the eight richest industrialized nations.”

  Carmen nodded. “Depends on who you listen to, the G8 is the world leaders either discussing how to solve the world’s problems or scheming how to make themselves and their cronies masters of the planet.”

  “What’s the G8 got to do with me being in this motel?”

  Carmen raised a finger. “One of the G8 study groups is holding a conference at the Grand Atlantic.”

  “What study group?”

  “The Markov PharmacoEconomic Study Group. They advise the G8 on medical developments and global health care.”

  I remembered being turned away from the resort. “Security seemed pretty tight for a bunch of eggheads meeting to talk about vaccines and Band-Aids. Would Goodman have anything to do with them?”

  “I’m ahead of you, Felix.” Carmen reached back into her tote bag and tossed a plastic card at me. “This is your pass for tonight’s party.”

  The card looked like a standard-issue ID. It had my name, photo, a bar code, magnetic strip, and an iridescent stamp. “Where did this come from?”

  Carmen shook her head. “Are you asking me that question?”

  “All right. What party?”

  “At the Grand Atlantic, what other?” Carmen produced a pair of envelopes in her hand, like a card trick. “You and I are guests of the G8 Markov PharmacoEconomic Study Group.”

  Carmen scooted back on the mattress. “Now we better get ready.” She hitched her skirt and slip over her hips and peeled the stockings off her legs.

  I did notice something, rather the absence of something. “What happened to your tattoo?” Carmen, always in orbit, once had a Star Trek insignia tattooed below her navel.

  “Star Trek got so damned politically correct that they pissed me off. So I lasered the tattoo away in protest.”

  Carmen rolled across the bed and reached into her tote bag. She pulled out a pair of strappy, golden, stiletto-heeled sandals and a tiny black bundle the size of her palm.

  “Let me show you what I brought for the party.” Carmen shook the bundle and it unfolded into a cocktail dress. She fluffed the dress and it hung from her arm perfect and free of creases. “This is my little black number.”

  “It’ll look stunning, Carmen.”

  “No. On me it’ll look positively deadly.”

  Chapter

  29

  I keep an Internet hacker on retainer. Every month I send five hundred bucks to a private mailbox in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In return, he or she gives me access to almost everything wired to the information grid. I sent to an anonymous e-mail address Marissa’s cell phone number and a request for her records. Now to wait.

  Carmen and I looked up articles about missing women. We found websites and blogs asking, Have you seen Mommy? Daughter? Sister? Wife? One husband complained that his wife was last seen hanging around with a mechanic from the local Harley-Davidson dealership. I didn’t think he’d find her with Goodman. Try Sturgis.

  We looked into the crash of the Cessna Caravan. It had taken off on a chartered flight from San Diego en route to Catalina Island. Air traffic control lost contact and, that afternoon, wreckage from the Cessna washed up near Camp Pendleton. The victims included the pilot and six passengers: four women and two men. None of the bodies were recovered. The women were close in profile to the others: early twenties to late thirties. Nothing remarkable but suspicious, since the Araneum had alerted me about the crash.

  Frustrated by how much more we learned while still remaining far from any wor
thwhile lead, we quit for the day, turned off the laptop, and got ready for the party.

  That evening, after the sun had set, Carmen and I entered the main lobby of the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort. We waited in line to scan our badges under the vigilant eyes of a phalanx of sour-faced men in cheap suits.

  I recognized a congressman from South Carolina, the one who looked like a wrinkled version of Harpo Marx. He stood next to the security kiosk and nodded vacantly as a man in a blazer two sizes too small and trousers that sagged under his potbelly bragged about the effectiveness of the security system.

  “No one,” the man in the blazer declared, his finger jousting at the scanner, “can sneak in here. This system is absolutely failsafe and foolproof.”

  My face appeared on the screen.

  Blazer man waved me through. The congressman’s gaze swiveled past me and latched onto Carmen. His eyes lit up with excitement and his wizened face turned into a giant smiling raisin.

  Carmen and I stepped away from the security cordon.

  I shoved my badge into an inside pocket of my jacket. “Did you notice the congressman?”

  Carmen slipped her badge into her tiny purse. “Are you kidding? That eye grope of his almost left bruises. But he had better iron his birthday suit before I would even think of doing him.”

  We joined the crowd shuffling through the foyer and into the lobby. About two hundred people mingled around a string quartet in the center of the lobby. The racket from all the voices made normal conversation impossible; as for the musicians, it was like playing next to Niagara Falls.

  Carmen and I veered to the south side of the lobby and halted between a ficus tree and a palm. We removed our contacts. I scanned right while Carmen scanned left.

  The lobby was a tidal pool of red auras. Most of them bristled with excitement, but some had tendrils of anxiety looping from their penumbras, and a few party poopers simmered with a low burn of worry.

  A large banner that hung from the center rafter read: WELCOME G8 MARKOV FELLOWS. The surrounding banners along the lobby ceiling mentioned various conference sponsors: both the Brookings and Hoover Institutes, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, ConAgra, Dow Chemical, Craig Bio-Engineering, Cress Tech International, and Nestlé.