Primed for Murder

by Jack Ewing

  Mac and Marta came into the room together a moment later, each with an arm about the other’s waist. Mac smiled sheepishly at Toby; the girl’s grin was brilliant. The professor had changed clothes: blue-and-white seersucker pants elongated his legs and a short-sleeved blue shirt showed too much of the old man’s pale, loose skin. The young woman was dressed now, too, in a knee-length orange skirt that showcased her slim brown legs. A simple white blouse with brightly embroidered flowers enhanced her smooth arms. Her hair was now undone and fell in loose waves almost to her waist.

  Mac sat in the free armchair. Marta crossed behind the old man, bending over to rest her chin on his head and her wrists on his shoulders. “Sorry to leave you so abruptly,” the professor said, “though I didn’t think you’d miss us once you began reading.”

  He was waiting for a reaction to his work, so Toby obliged. “Fascinating stuff. Couldn’t put it down.”

  The professor beamed, pleased with the critique. “You probably wondered what became of us.” He warmed the smile and shifted it to the woman, who mirrored the look. “Marta here loves to play games and I sometimes get caught up in them. If I don’t join in when she’s ready to play, she sulks for days afterward.”

  Over Mac’s head, Marta mimed sulking, making her eyes droop and curling her lower lip. She broke herself up and giggled into her hands.

  “She’s just a child, really, and she makes me act like one.” Mac looked up fondly at her. “We eventually tired from our horseplay and napped. That’s why we were gone so long.”

  Whatever. “Where are her parents?” Why was he prolonging this ordeal?

  “Muerte,” Marta whispered.

  Toby understood what that meant before the professor translated. “They’re both dead.” The old man’s eyes focused on some distant spot. “Taken during an epidemic of killer fever that swept through their village in the Yucatan. The village is near Mayan ruins. I led excavations there many years ago. Marta’s grandfather worked the site with me, and he was so proficient, I made him foreman of the crew. He was struck down by a second wave of fever after Marta’s parents perished but hung on long enough to contact me.” Marta stared raptly at the top of Mac’s skull, like a child waiting for the storyteller to reach the thrilling conclusion of “Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “I flew down immediately,” Mac said. “I spoke to the grandfather on his deathbed. He had made arrangements for her four young brothers and sisters to be placed with caring foster families in the area, but Marta was a problem.”

  At twelve, Mac said, Marta was too young to work at anything—outside of prostitution—which would contribute significantly to a family’s fortunes. At the same time, she was too old to be molded to new rules, customs and attitudes by a fresh set of surrogate parents. She was mature enough to bear children but too immature to be a good wife. Nobody wanted a girl who would be nothing but another hungry mouth to feed, who would be rebellious, who would want new clothes every year. Without someone to watch over her, her grandfather thought she’d be lucky to survive long enough to turn tricks at tourist traps dotting the coast where nothing but jungle used to be. “He was correct in his assessment of Marta’s chances,” Mac concluded. “So I promised I’d take her, in consideration of our long and warm friendship.”

  “You adopted her?”

  “Not exactly.” Mac’s bony fingers rose to comb through Marta’s shiny black hair, which cascaded in a solid flood and flowed on either side of the professor’s head, making him look like the world’s oldest hippie. “She was a beautiful child when she arrived in the States in the back of a moving van five years ago.”

  “She’s illegal?”

  “Technically, yes. I couldn’t afford time to go through proper channels then. Who knows what would have happened to her before necessary papers finally came through?” His hand caressed Marta’s cheek “You should have seen her when she climbed down, blinking from confinement in total darkness for a week. A skinny, dirty little thing with long legs like a newborn colt and huge, expressive eyes to melt your heart.”

  Marta tilted her head and shut her famous eyes, enjoying the praise, his touch. If she’d been a cat, she’d have purred.

  “How she’s grown since then. Twenty-one now. But still a child, you know. With a child’s sense of wonder.” Mac’s mouth twitched with a sly grin. “A selfish child, with a peculiar sense of humor and a perverted notion of propriety.”

  Marta spat back a stream of words in another language, her eyes gleaming. Mac looked uncomfortable but translated for Toby, as if compelled to perform his job, no matter the circumstances. “She says she may be a child in some ways but she’s a woman in other important ways.” Marta shot a saucy look Toby’s way and made more strange sounds. He thought he heard his name in the midst of the gobbledygook. The professor handed off to Toby. “She wonders if you think she seems more like a child or a woman.”

  Toby didn’t fumble. “I think I’d be in trouble, no matter how I answered.”

  Marta and Mac were both delighted with Toby’s slippery escape. They indulged in a little touch-and-tickle, like kids who don’t know how to act when company comes to visit. Toby stopped them before their new game degenerated into another round of Catch-Me-If-You-Can or perhaps Hide-the-Pickle, if vibes he was picking up meant anything.

  “Folks, I hate to break up your fun.” He spoke louder than necessary to get attention. “But we need to talk seriously for a minute.”

  “Yes, Toby?” Mac composed his face into somber lines. Marta followed suit, though a smile still played about her lips.

  “Where’d you get those photos you showed me?”

  “I thought you knew. Didn’t Jim tell you? He sent me a sample photograph with a note enclosed from Mexico, saying that he’d had the opportunity to photograph a new find. He was giving me a peek and wondered if I’d like to tackle a translation. That day I called him at the number he provided and told him I’d be delighted.”

  “How’d you know each other?”

  “We met at a conference on Pre-Columbian art and literature in Texas some time ago, where I was a featured speaker. He’d read my Science article about stelae at Tikal. I’d noted his in Archaeology regarding murals at Bonampak. It turned out we were practically neighbors. Since then, we’ve communicated sporadically.”

  “What happened after you said you’d do it?”

  “Days later, I received another package from Mexico. It contained storage devices and digital photos, plus instructions from Jim, which I followed to the letter.”

  “Didn’t you think it odd he contacted you out of the blue about this? You don’t sound like especially close friends.”

  “We’re not. But we are part of the great fraternity of teachers, past and present”—he spread hands to show how big—“enthralled by their subject of study.”

  “How much do you know about the actual codex?”

  “The physical object?” Mac shrugged. “Not much. Jim hasn’t been forthcoming with details yet. I know the materials it’s made of. I’m convinced it’s genuine. I’m beginning to understand what it’s all about. What more do I need to know?”

  The professor was in for a shock. Toby hoped his old heart could take it. “You know where the manuscript is now? You know who’s got it?”

  “I have no idea. I assume it’s in a museum in Mexico. But its location is immaterial to me.” He thumbed over a shoulder towards the table. “As long as knowledge contained in the codex is preserved.”

  That might not be long, Toby thought. “How long have you had the photos?”

  “A month? Six weeks?” Mac spread hands helplessly. “Time’s not a factor when my head is buried in the past. The clock stands still when I’m studying an ornate glyph, trying to decide from context if it means ‘had conquered’ or ‘was conquered.’ I’ve been working on the translation constantly. Even when I’m not actually actively working on it, I’m thinking about it.”

  “How close are you to finishing?”
>
  Mac smiled wryly. “With something like this, you’re never finished. Every word I write is subject to dispute from other experts. Academic battles can rage for years over the interpretation of a single line of characters. It’s a process of constant reexamination and reevaluation—” He stopped the speech mid-stream. “To answer your question, the symbol-by-symbol analysis is ninety percent complete. The prose rendition is halfway there. I’ll need several weeks to smooth it out.”

  That much time wasn’t available. “You being paid for your work?”

  Mac chuckled. “Jim offered an honorarium but I refused. I don’t need money. My pension, and dividends from investments provide a tidy income. Marta and I have everything we need or want. But were I a pauper, I’d do the job for free, for the challenge. It’s flattering to be considered for such important work at my age, because the field is crowded with young, highly qualified Mayan scholars. Jim could have found any number of capable people eager to take on the task. It’s an honor to be chosen, to be thought of tacitly as the best man for the job.”

  There were other explanations for choosing Mac, but Toby didn’t voice them. “Have you spoken with Jim since you took on the job?”

  “I called him in Mexico to tell him the package of photographs had arrived. He’s called me several times to check my progress.” Mac’s face, illuminated now by a ray of rising sun shafting through the room’s bank of windows, seemed to glow. “Last time we talked, Jim promised to give me full credit when he publishes. It will be the finest feather in my cap, my crowning achievement—all the more rewarding, coming as it does in the twilight of my career.” There was more, but it fell on deaf ears.

  Only one problem with your scenario, professor, thought Toby. Jim’s not going to publish. He’s got bigger worries, like trying to convince someone he and his wife are more valuable alive than dead. Considering the potential fate of the Puterbaughs, of Mac and Marta, of himself, injected a note of urgency into the proceedings. It was growing late. The bad guys could be on their way. The time for polite chitchat was over.

  “It’s not going to work out like you think, Mac,” Toby said.

  The professor sat forward. “Why?” Marta too looked intently at Toby.

  “There are problems. For one, the Xaxpak Codex is here in upstate New York.”

  “Here?” Mac seemed mildly interested. “Is it on tour?”

  “No, it was smuggled back from Mexico by Jim Puterbaugh.”

  “Jim’s back from Mexico?” Mac frowned. “He didn’t call to tell me.”

  “He has other things on his mind right now.”

  “And you say he has the manuscript?”

  “Not any more. He brought it back for somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “A mysterious Mr. G. Could be Giambi. Sound familiar?”

  At the mention of the name, Mac paled. “Roberto Giambi?”

  “I don’t know his first name. Who’s Roberto Giambi?”

  Mac licked dry lips and scratched absently at his cheek. “He’s the only surviving son of a mob boss who made millions running liquor during Prohibition. Two older Giambi boys were later killed in the course of ruthless battles for territory.”

  Toby grunted. It was ancient history, like the Mayans.

  “After the liquor wars ended,” Mac said, “Roberto helped run his father’s shady enterprises—alleged to include loan sharking, gambling, extortion, and other illegalities. The young man took the helm when old Jacopo was imprisoned on three separate occasions. He inherited his father’s fortune and complete control of the family businesses when Giambi Senior died of natural causes about twenty-five years ago.” Mac wiped sweat off his brow and stared out the window as if memories were written on the morning sky. “Rumor has it Roberto, though an investor in numerous legitimate companies, is involved in more devious practices than his father.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “He is reputed to be considerably more brutal in his methods of business, too,” Mac said. That sounded like the truth to Toby, too—if the threats he’d heard at the Puterbaugh house were any indication. “The law, unfortunately, can’t pursue him on the basis of hearsay. They have suspicions but no proof. They’ve accused but nothing’s stuck. He’s very slippery, is young Roberto Giambi.”

  “Young Roberto? He can’t be that young if he’s been around since Prohibition. That was, what, forty, fifty years ago?”

  “Longer than that. I believe Roberto is in his late seventies. Younger than I am. But he looks older.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Oh, yes. Though he stays out of the spotlight these days. He normally lives quietly, surrounded by an army of loyal retainers.” Toby knew he was talking about thugs like Leo and Artie. “From the lake you can occasionally spot him puttering around his back yard,” Mac said. “You might glimpse him being driven somewhere in a limousine. He sat just two tables away with a large and boisterous party one evening when Marta and I dined at the Brae Loch, in Cazenovia.”

  “Is that where he lives? Cazenovia?”

  “Most of the time. I’ve heard he also has a home among the Thousand Islands and another place in the Florida Keys.”

  “Is the house in Cazenovia a big stone job with a nice view of the lake and a high stone wall around it?”

  Mac shot him a sharp glance. “You’ve seen it then?”

  “Just this morning, on the way here from Syracuse.”

  “How did you come to pass the Giambi house?” There was a hint of suspicion, a flicker of fear, perhaps, in Mac’s voice. “It’s a few miles off the main highway.”

  “I followed a car there from the city.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because the Puterbaughs were in it. Two hard men took them at gunpoint to see somebody called Mr. G. There was a sign where they turned in: Giambi.”

  Mac didn’t ask how Toby had become involved in the affair. His face was the picture under ‘surprise’ in the dictionary. “But why would they abduct the Puterbaughs? You said Jim handed over the codex.”

  “Right. While Giambi is happy to have the old book, laws were broken along the way to get it. Giambi can’t afford to be tied to anything criminal since the police are already watching for him to stub his toe. So he’s sent his boys to do whatever it takes to keep him out of it.” Toby leaned forward. “Giambi doesn’t want anybody to know he has the book. He doesn’t want evidence lying around that the book even exists. The last thing he needs is a leak.”

  Mac’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Giambi’s got unfinished business: the Puterbaughs, for instance. Mrs. P, it seems, opened the package with the codex, which they were supposed to deliver to Mr. G sight unseen. She showed it to hubby, whose eyes bugged out. He saw a dissertation, a doctorate, a new house, fame and fortune right in front of him.”

  “Jim Puterbaugh always did strike me as ambitious,” Mac said prissily to Marta. “A social climber.” She nodded, but by her blank look it was clear she didn’t understand what he was talking about.

  “Mr. G suspected what Mr. P was up to or maybe they were being watched. Shortly after the Puterbaugh clan arrived back in town and handed over the package, their house was broken into. Jim’s only copies of his dissertation were taken and destroyed.”

  The professor looked like he’d been cattle-prodded: his eyes popped, his mouth hanging open. “You don’t mean it!”

  “It gets worse. A man was murdered.”

  Toby gave a condensed version of recent events as Mac and Marta, looking stunned, hung on his words. He told of seeing the murder, finding the body, informing the thickheaded police and discovering the sloppy cover-up. He left out the second sheets he’d collected. He didn’t mention being burdened by the corpse or tell of its later fate.

  “Mr. G is anxious to cover his tracks,” he finished, “now that his boys have stooped to breaking-and-entering and murder. He’s added kidnapping. He may have more killing in mind. T
he Puterbaughs were invited to his house this morning to tell everything they know about the codex and anyone connected to it.”

  Mac caught on immediately. “They’ll talk about the photos.” He looked nervously over his shoulder, as if the snapshots on the table might burst into flame.

  “Eventually.” Toby wondered what techniques Giambi’s minions would apply to get the required information: The death of a thousand cuts? Water-boarding? Electrical devices? Drugs? How well would the Puterbaughs stand up to punishment? Not very well to judge by the speed with which Sandy had betrayed Toby to the man named Leo. But then, Toby would probably spill his guts too at the first suggestion of pain.

  “They’ll want the photos and negatives and computer files,” he said to Mac.

  “They can have them. Marta and I have copied all figures in the codex by hand. I practically know them by heart. And I have my translation—”

  “You don’t understand, professor. They’ll want it all. They’ll want assurances you won’t talk about it, ever.”

  “They can’t have my translation, my finest work.” Mac’s mouth was set firm.

  “Mac, these people are nobody to mess with. You know—you gave me the boss’s pedigree. I’ve seen with my own eyes what they can do.”

  Mac peered into Toby’s eyes. “Do you think we’re in danger here?”

  It was finally out in the open and not a moment too soon. “Yes, I think so.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  Toby hedged. “It’s not my place to tell anybody—”

  “What would you do if you were in my position?”

  I am in your position, Toby thought. “I’d pack fast and take off for parts unknown by the back roads. You know a spot you can go where you’d be hard to find?”

  Mac and Marta shared a glance. “Yes,” the old man said. “I know such a place.”

  “Good.” Toby’s knees cracked as he stood. He stretched to work kinks out of his neck and back. “Now I’ve got to go. I have an appointment back in town.”

  “Aren’t you in danger, too, Toby? If you saw the murder and they find out—”