AHMM, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "What's that?” she asked. “Do you catch snakes too?” He smiled at the question. “It is a symbol of Saint Benedict. I come from a Catholic family."

  "You and your brother studied to be priests,” she remembered.

  "It didn't take for either of us, especially Dunstan. I think that broke my mother's heart. It's a blessing she or my father didn't live to see what became of him."

  "He's wanted in the States for killing a police officer,” Munson told him.

  "Nothing about him would surprise me."

  He had to leave then to help with the fish. “There's nothing more for us here,” Munson decided.

  "You don't think he could be lying?” Annie wondered.

  The detective smiled. “Think Quentis is hiding here under a pile of fish? Want to go searching for him?"

  "Then where do we go?"

  "There's still the ferry to Los Mochis for us to check out. It's almost six thirty."

  The ship proved to be a large car ferry capable of transporting scores of vehicles and several hundred passengers across the hundred and forty miles to Lechuguilla Bay and Los Mochis. The journey took almost three hours, but a good crowd was lined up for the evening trip.

  "If he is here we'll never find him in this mob,” Annie said.

  "They all have to pass through that gate. We'll spot him if he's here."

  They scrutinized the boarding passengers and even checked the cars in line, but Quentis was not to be seen. “If he's wearing a wig over that bald head we might never spot him,” she said.

  "You're right about that. I've been looking for baldies."

  The last of the passengers hurried on just before sailing time, and Munson turned away. “Another good idea gone sour,” he decided. “Maybe he stayed near the airport after all."

  But then suddenly she gripped his arm. “Is that him? The man running for the gate?"

  "It sure is! Stay away from me this time, Sears. I've got him."

  Quentis saw them at the last moment. He seemed to skid to a stop and change direction, but Munson already had his weapon out. “Freeze, Quentis, or you're a dead man!"

  The fugitive turned suddenly toward them. It was unclear whether he meant to surrender or attack them, but Munson didn't wait to find out. He fired three quick shots, all three catching the bald man in the chest.

  * * * *

  "You had to shoot him three times?” Annie asked later.

  "I wasn't taking any chances this time."

  "He wasn't even armed."

  "Don't worry so much, Sears. Nobody asks many questions south of the border. He's a cop killer, remember?"

  Officer Paseo had come at once following Munson's call to his cell phone. Unlike Annie, he saw no problem with the shooting of a cop-killing fugitive. “They'll probably give you a medal back in San Diego. Saves them the cost of a trial. You going to take the body back with you?"

  Frank Munson thought about it. “No point in that. His parents are dead and his only sibling is down here. Maybe Benedict Quentis will even pay for the funeral, though I doubt it."

  "We have to tell him about it anyway, before he sees it in the paper,” Annie insisted. “I'll go if you don't want to, Frank."

  Munson shrugged. “It's all yours."

  Quentis's body had been removed. Munson accompanied Paseo back to the police station to give them an official statement, while Annie Sears took the rental car and drove back to the dock where they'd interviewed Benedict Quentis. He was nowhere around, and the fishing operation seemed to be closed down for the day. Finally she spotted one of the men who'd been loading fish into the cart.

  "I'm looking for Benedict Quentis. Is he around?"

  "Gone,” the man replied. “Gone home."

  "Where?"

  "Or maybe to the Corridor for a beer. Who knows?"

  "Where is the Corridor?"

  He gave her directions to a restaurant and bar a few blocks away. At first Annie didn't see him in the dim light and decided she'd have to get his home address. Then she heard his distinctive laughter and spotted him in a corner booth with a woman.

  She made her way over there and asked, “Could I see you alone, Mr. Quentis? It's very important."

  He glared at her, squeezing the woman's shoulder and promising to be right back. They went off to a corner near the restrooms, and she told him his brother was dead. “My partner shot him as he was getting on the ferry to Los Mochis. He wouldn't surrender."

  "Dunstan always was a stubborn fool,” he said.

  "Will you bury him here?"

  He thought about that. “He doesn't deserve a funeral. Bury him where you like. If there's an expense, I will pay it. That's all. He was dead to me long ago."

  "All right,” she told him, not surprised at his decision. But something was still bothering her, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

  In the morning, she sought out a library that had English-language books. It took her some time to find what she wanted, and then she phoned Benedict Quentis from the police station. “We need you to identify the body,” she told him. “Can you meet me at the morgue in the morning?"

  "What is this? Can't you check his fingerprints? I haven't laid eyes on him in nearly twenty years."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but as next of kin the local police say you must identify the body."

  When she hung up, Frank Munson was standing over her. “What's that all about? We've got plane reservations for this afternoon."

  "It won't take long, Frank. It's just something I want to check on. I messed this up at the start and I don't want to mess up again."

  "Was that Quentis's brother you were talking to?"

  She nodded. “I'm meeting him at the morgue in an hour."

  "We don't need any identification. Paseo already sent the dead man's prints on to San Diego. That'll prove who he is."

  "Just humor me. I want to make up for letting him get away yesterday."

  "All right. Just make sure you're at the airport by one o'clock."

  While she waited for Benedict, she spoke with the chief of detectives and phoned her office in San Diego. She had to make sure she was right this time. An hour later she was at the morgue, awaiting Benedict Quentis's arrival. When he came in he was hurried and nervous. “I don't want to see his body,” he told her. “Not with bullet wounds in it."

  "The wounds were in his chest. His face was untouched. He had a shaved head, so he's sure to look different from when you last saw him.” She led the way in to the morgue supervisor, who pointed at one of the examining tables.

  "That's the one from the ferry boat shooting,” he told them.

  Annie pulled back the sheet, revealing Dunstan Quentis's shaved head.

  Benedict peered at the body. “I don't know. He looks so different now.” He bent over and pulled the sheet down a bit further, revealing his left arm, and took a deep breath. “This isn't my brother,” he said quietly. “This isn't Dunstan."

  Annie allowed herself a slight smile. “Because there's no tattoo, right?"

  * * * *

  She found Munson with Officer Paseo in the police squad room. “It's all over, Frank,” she told him.

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Dunstan Quentis is still alive. You shot the wrong man."

  He stood up, shaking his head. “That's crazy. Paseo here already sent the dead man's fingerprints to San Diego."

  "Then I guess you've both got a lot of explaining to do."

  Two local detectives had entered the room behind her. One of them said, “You'd better surrender your weapons."

  "What is this?” Munson yelled. “Has everyone gone crazy?"

  "Only you, Frank. How did you ever expect to get away with this?"

  "Do you mind telling me what you're talking about?"

  "Two things struck me as odd when we called at Striker's house yesterday. First, he called you by name—Sergeant Munson—though no one had mentioned your name or rank. Then as we were leaving, the teenage gi
rl with him whispered ‘Quentis here’ in my ear. I didn't realize she was trying to tell me that Striker was really Quentis. But I remembered the tattoo of a harp on his upper arm. When his brother Benedict told us he used the serpent and cup as his logo because it was a symbol of Saint Benedict, I remembered that harp. I spent some time at a library this morning and discovered that a harp is a symbol of Saint Dunstan. It was a religious family, as Benedict told me. I checked with the SD police and learned that Quentis had a harp tattoo."

  "I know nothing about this,” Officer Paseo muttered without much passion.

  "I think you know everything about it. Quentis had money from his robberies. Once he was arrested it wasn't too difficult for him to bribe you and arrange for Frank to handle the supposed extradition. You picked me as your partner, Frank, because I was new to the force and you figured I wouldn't ask questions. You showed me a mug shot of Quentis, which was really a shot of Striker, already set up to take his place. Once down here, you found an excuse to enter the jail alone to pick up Quentis. Paseo came downstairs with you both and in the lobby the switch was made. Quentis became Striker and Striker became Quentis. You brought the bald Striker out in handcuffs while the real Quentis escaped out another door. It might never have worked in a San Diego jail, but down here it was easy."

  "If I knew he wasn't really Quentis, why did I shoot him?"

  "Supposedly you'd arranged for him to escape, slipping him a key to the handcuffs. But in truth killing him was always part of the plan. He'd be buried here, and Quentis's real fingerprints would be sent to San Diego as proof of his death. Quentis would start a new life as Striker. But I hit your gun arm and saved his life the first time, which complicated everything. We met the phony Striker and we met Benedict Quentis. I put a few ideas together and asked Benedict to identify his brother's body. The tattoo was missing, of course, and I knew the truth."

  One of the detectives took over the story then. “We arrested the real Quentis at Striker's home an hour ago. It looks as if you'll be flying home alone, Miss Sears. Quentis and these two will all face charges here—everything from bribery and prison escape to murder."

  "I think I'll enjoy the trip.” She turned to Munson. “I'm sorry I didn't work out as your partner, Frank. I guess you should have picked a man for this job."

  Copyright (c) 2008 Edward D. Hoch

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  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  The American mystery market has been enlivened in recent years with an infusion of first-class foreign works. This month's lineup features three far-flung authors making their U.S. debuts; not only are the stories these authors tell vastly different, but so are the circumstances surrounding their publication.

  Nicola Upson makes a stunning debut in the United States with her first novel AN EXPERT IN MURDER (Harper Collins, $24.95), which was published in the U.K. earlier this year. For anyone who appreciates the classical British mystery this is one you can't afford to miss. Skillfully rendering the milieu of 1930's London, particularly its theater world, and featuring author and playwright Josephine Tey as a lead character, Upson delivers a brilliantly complete literary mystery.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Tey's hit play, “Richard of Bordeaux,” is entering the final week of its lengthy run at the New Theater in London's West End, which is reason enough for the Scottish author (real name Elizabeth Mackintosh) to make the train journey down to London. On the train she meets and befriends young Elspeth Simmons, a fan of the mysteries Josephine wrote under the name Gordon Daviot, as well as a particular fan of her hit play.

  Simmons is also going to London for the play. Her young man works at the New Theater and has managed to secure choice tickets for them as a special treat. When the train arrives the two women separate with plans to meet later at the theater. That meeting never takes place as Simmons, returning briefly to the train car to retrieve her bag, is quickly and ruthlessly stabbed and slain.

  The discovery of her body, and the tableau created around it by the killer, brings Detective Inspector Archie Penrose on to the scene. Penrose is a friend of Tey's: He and her lover, Jack, had served in WWI together—until Jack was killed. One of the many clever touches Upson has fashioned is to make Penrose the model for Tey's fictional detective, Alan Grant.

  Upson takes us into the theater world and introduces a memorable cast of characters: impresario Bernard Aubrey always thinking ahead to the next production; lead actor John Terry anxious to break his theater contract to film a movie; the talented, bawdy Motley sisters, Ronnie and Lettice, theater designers extraordinaire; aging actress Lydia Beaumont at that awkward age between leading and character roles; and Lydia's latest romantic interest, Marta Fox.

  Upson weaves a mystery that involves all these lives against a backdrop of the cataclysmic events wrought by the devastation of the Great War. It is an impressive and accomplished debut that satisfies on every level: a complex murder carried out with audacity and verve; a setting that is vivid and compelling and reflects its time perfectly; and vibrant characters that remain vivid long after the book is shut.

  Giorgio Faletti's I KILL (Baldini Castoldi Dalai Editore, $24.95) represents a dual first. The first of three thrillers by this Italian author is also the first entry into the U.S. market by the publisher. The book is being distributed through Independent Publishers Group.

  Faletti's thriller is an auspicious debut for author and publisher alike. Despite its nearly six hundred pages, there are few places where the pace lags in this story of a serial killer who disrupts the glitz and glamour of normally peaceable Monte Carlo with a pair of sensational murders.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  The killings are presaged by a call from the killer to Jean-Loup Verdier, host of Radio Monte Carlo's most popular call-in show—a program that is broadcast throughout much of Europe. No one takes the caller too seriously until his eerie pronouncement, “I kill...” assumes bloody form.

  The first victims attract attention not only because of their fame—Jochen Welder, a famous race car driver, and Arianna Parker, a brilliant chess player—but because of the dramatic way in which they were dispatched and the gruesome ritual mutilation that followed their deaths.

  FBI Special Agent Frank Ottobre is in Monte Carlo visiting his friend Police Commissioner Nicolas Hulot of Monaco, into whose lap this case falls. Hulot is quick to ask his friend to apply his expertise, but as the case develops their roles will change considerably.

  The killer's taunting calls to Jean-Loup continue to precede the killings and provide almost the only clues the careful killer leaves. Cat-and-mouse games continue with plenty of cunning surprises as casualties mount and a ruthless American general enters the chase with an agenda of revenge that threatens anyone who gets in his way.

  Special plaudits are due the translating team of Muriel Jorgensen, Lenore Rosenberg, and Antony Shugaar who rendered this hefty volume into fluid English that reads smoothly and easily.

  * * * *

  Martina Cole's American debut is a very different story. Cole's CLOSE (Grand Central, $24.99) is the British author's thirteenth novel. Despite the fact that she has had many best-selling novels in England, this is her first foray into this country.

  Her first novel, Dangerous Lady, was a bestseller back in 1992. Since then she has written more than a dozen books and seen two of her novels turned into successful TV series. It is curious that Cole's novels have not entered the U.S. market sooner given the success so many British crime fiction authors enjoy here. But Cole is hoping to rectify that.

  Close is the saga of the Brodie clan's ups and downs in the rough and sordid crime world of East London. Covering a forty-year period from the 1960's forward, the novel deals with a criminal underworld where cops are often on the take and the law of the jungle prevails. The only ones you can trust are family, and you can't really trust them. In this world Patrick Brodie makes his mark, capping his rise to the top of th
e heap with a bold and violent deposing of the current “Face."

  Brodie controls the liquor, the clubs, and the prostitutes, and has a hand in everything that goes down in his territory. He marries Lily whose loyalty, smarts and resolve resonate throughout the saga.

  Brodie in his turn is deposed even more cruelly and violently than his predecessor, and Lily must hold her family together any way she can until her sons can wreak their vengeance. Lily's resolve, strength, and endurance stand out vividly in a novel where men rule almost all aspects of their society.

  Cole writes from the criminal's point of view, and her novels are violent, expletive-filled, misogynistic, and entertaining all at the same time. In East London and Essex (Cole's home town), her books are not only most read, but also most stolen from bookshops. It will be interesting to see if this British “godfather” type saga can sell as well here as it does at home.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: FEAT OF CLAY by Donald Moffitt

  Tim Foley

  * * * *

  It had been a vexing morning for the scribe Nabu-zir. First there had been the difficulty with the temple official Lu-inanna over the inventory lists that he said the temple scribes were too busy to work on today. He had promised a half mina of silver for the job, which had turned out to be twice as long as he'd said, and which had eaten up half the morning. And then Lu-inanna had tried to fob him off with a quarter mina. Next there had been the loan agreement, where the two parties had kept changing the terms after the clay had already been inscribed. Nabu-zir had ruined a half dozen tablets that could no longer be smoothed over and rewritten, until he'd finally had to tell the two fools to go away and come back when they were ready to imprint their signature seals.

  And finally there had been that cursed wedding contract.

  Nabu-zir stared after the departing wedding group and shook his head. They were halfway to the temple steps and they were still quarreling. The bride's father had balked at putting his seal on the tablet, claiming that the father of the would-be groom had reduced the agreed bride price. The young man's father, in retaliation, had accused the other of evading his own obligations. The two hired witnesses had then chimed in, each on the side of his principal, and almost come to blows. Then they had all turned on Nabu-zir, blaming him for the impasse. Meanwhile the poor girl, whose mother was a household slave, had burst into tears, while the embarrassed young man stood by helplessly.