The Maya Stone Murders

by Malcolm Shuman

  I opened the drawer of his bedside table and looked down at a package of condoms. So he was not celibate. But did it mean one woman or several? And was the “K.” who’d given him a bottle of liqueur one of them?

  I called a friend at the Picayune to get the address of the funeral home that was handling the arrangements, then left the apartment, dropping the key back into the mailbox. I drove out to Carrollton and north to Earhart. The establishment was half a mile down and the people in the lobby seemed to belong to a dead woman in another parlor. The one with Leeds’s body was empty, but that was probably because it was dinnertime, and I suspected that afterward a few friends would trickle in. My contact at the paper said the body was being shipped home, to Iowa, so tonight would be their last chance. I looked over the signatures in the visitor’s book and wrote down the ones I didn’t know. Then I went back out into the lengthening dusk. Traffic was still heavy and I was not contemplating the drive home with pleasure. If I’d been more alert I would have seen them coming, but by the time my brain sounded a warning, it was too late. They were behind me, one on either side, and I felt something hard against my back.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” a voice rasped and it didn’t take a linguist to know the accent was Cuban.

  7

  The car was a white Continental with smoked windows. One man opened the rear door and the other jabbed me in the ribs. I got in.

  To my surprise, there was no one in the backseat waiting, but to keep me from getting the idea this was a service of the funeral home, the man with the hard object slipped in next to me and the other one, who looked like Godzilla, got in beside the driver.

  “This is nice,” I said, “but my car is parked over there. Besides, I’m not a member of the family.”

  “What?” The one beside me frowned. He was swarthy and squat, with a little too much gut, but he had the gun. He took it from under his coat and rested it on his lap as if to show me in case I had any ideas. It was a Browning Hi-Power, the kind that fires for about a week before you have to reload it.

  “You got a big mouth for a one-arm man,” he said.

  The driver pulled away from the curb and I reminded myself that calm was the best ally I had. Don’t let them smell fear, but don’t aggravate them, either. “So where are we going?” I asked.

  “Empty the pockets,” he said, ignoring my question. “Now.”

  I showed him the contents of my right trousers pocket and then started to reach across my body. He watched me struggle with the left pocket and then grunted in disgust.

  “Never mind,” he said, patting me down on that side. “Gimme the wallet.”

  I handed it to him and he gave it to his companion in the front.

  “You don’t got no gun,” he said.

  “What do I need a gun for?” I asked. “I’m not the one who goes around kidnapping people.”

  “Shut up.”

  I watched the streets of New Orleans pass and wondered at our destination. We were on Broad now, heading for Tulane Avenue and the downtown district. And yet I knew they weren’t planning to drop me at my door.

  They apparently had lost interest in talking to me and the driver switched on some Latin band music. The two up front started talking to each other in Spanish and my fat companion appeared bored. The gun wavered in his lap as if he had forgotten about it and I considered a grab, but I knew the odds weren’t good. And besides, if they’d wanted to kill me they wouldn’t have gone about it this way, at the height of the afternoon rush.

  Then I saw it in front of us, looming up like a finger against the darkening sky. The Trade Mart Building. Of course.

  We swung into the entrance turnaround and I caught a movement of the big front doors. The man who came out was slight and dapper, in a white linen suit with a red silk handkerchief licking out of his pocket like a flame. He had a high forehead, with slicked-down black hair already gray at the temples, and he carried a black attaché case. A younger man hurried to keep up with him, talking as they went, but the man with the attaché case did not seem to be listening. The goon beside me tucked his gun away as if he were about to be caught with his hand in the cash drawer and jumped out to hold the door open and the man in the white suit got in beside me. The fat man’s companion was out of the car now, smoothing his coat. The door slammed and the car left the curb, leaving the muscle boys behind. So this was to be a friendly little chat.

  “Mr. Ordaz,” I said. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?”

  He smiled tolerantly and I caught a movement in the corner of my eye. The bodyguards were following in a black Ford.

  “So you are Mr. Dunn,” he said, offering me his hand.

  I shook it. It seemed a good idea.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “My reputation precedes me.

  “How many one-armed detectives are there?” He shrugged. “Frankly, I have followed your career for some time. Your work in the Agent Orange affair was remarkable. And before that, there was the matter of the state senator and the devil cult.” He offered me a cigarette but I declined. “You seem to do better with one arm than most men do with two.”

  “I do the best I can,” I said.

  He gave a little chuckle and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “America has been good to me. I came here after the Communists took my country. I fought in the Bay of Pigs, was captured, escaped by cutting a major’s throat, and hid out in the sierra for eight months. I stole a boat and sailed to Key West. I supported myself at the University of Miami as a janitor, until I had my law degree.” He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray in the door. “Through hard work and attention to detail I have become wealthy, and I have tried to use my good fortune to help others. I assist refugees from oppression through the legal maze of immigration. I have made contributions to the freedom fighters in Nicaragua. My son, by the way, has just graduated from the Air Force Academy. You should appreciate that.” He put a friendly hand on my knee and looked me in the eyes. “You fought for your country. You sacrificed for her. You work for yourself and you owe no man outside of your own blood. We have a great deal in common, Mr. Dunn.”

  “I’ll tell you whether I agree with that when you tell me what happens to some Salvadoreño peasant who shows up and can’t pay your price.”

  “No one works for nothing, Mr. Dunn. But I have done my quota of pro bono work. However, I can see that it will take far more time than I have to convince you.” He removed his hand from my knee and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “So perhaps I should go straight to business. You have something. I want it. I will be happy to pay you a fair price.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  Ordaz shook his head sadly. “Of course you do. I am trying to be businesslike, but if you force me I can be more persuasive.”

  “You can’t persuade me if I don’t know what it is you want.”

  He sighed. “The jade hacha, Mr. Dunn, as you know perfectly well.”

  It would do no good to go on pretending. “I don’t have it with me,” I told him.

  “Of course not. If you did, we would be spared this charade. Where is it and how soon can you get it?”

  “It’s in safekeeping,” I said. “And as far as how soon, you haven’t established ownership. Considering that it’s evidence in a murder investigation, I’m not sure you want to.”

  “I am not the owner, but I was at one time. The piece was inadvertently sold with some other artifacts, to my great dismay. Now, in order to right the mistake, I would like to buy it back. It is not connected with the death of Mr. Leeds, you have my word on that. I merely want to have the opportunity to repurchase it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am an aficionado of things Mayan. Now, as to the jade …”

  “First tell me about the other artifacts, the ones it got mixed up with.”

  The Cuban’s face took on a pained expression. “That cannot possibly matter to you, Mr. Dunn. It is a matter of business. I am only interested in the j
ade.”

  “Why don’t you call me after this is all over?”

  “Mr. Dunn, you don’t seem to understand. I am willing to pay you more than the piece is worth. Failing that, I will take it, and you will end up with nothing but some broken bones.”

  “I thought you’d get around to that. What’s to keep you from killing me once I turn it over?”

  “Why should I do that when I’m willing to go to so much trouble to avoid being involved in a murder investigation?”

  “A point. Let me think about it.”

  He nodded. “Certainly. You have twenty-four hours, and then we take it. And I can promise it will be more painful for all of us, but especially for you.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Ordaz.”

  We stopped and I got out. I was only about a block from my car, but my legs felt suddenly weak. When I reached it, my clothes were stuck to my body, but I knew that the perspiration was only partly the effect of the late-evening heat.

  On the way home I pondered what I had learned. Ordaz wanted the jade because it could link him to the murder. The jade, he claimed, had been mixed up accidentally with some other artifacts. What artifacts was he talking about? The ones Thorpe had been finding in his displays? Ordaz had not been the one salting the displays; he had better things to do than try to ruin an archaeologist’s reputation. That meant whoever had placed the items in the exhibits had gotten the artifacts from Ordaz, or a middleman. But who had placed them in the displays and why? Leeds, because he didn’t like his major professor? If so, the finger pointed at Thorpe as the murderer. But suppose it hadn’t been Leeds? The girl, Astrid, had the combination to the alarm system. Might she have held something against Thorpe, and had Thorpe seized on Leeds as the culprit? And what about Katherine Degas? She was in love with Thorpe, or had been. And after his wife had died, she had seen Thorpe marry a younger woman. Scorned women make good murderers. If Astrid was guilty, I might be able to shake something out of her, but I knew better about Katherine Degas.

  The best way seemed through the artifacts, by tracing them back to whoever had gotten them, and that led me to Jason Cobbett. He had called Ordaz, of that I had no doubt. He had recognized the jade and let it be known that I had it. He could, I decided, stand a little heat.

  I parked and went up the back steps to my apartment, from the courtyard, and opened the patio door. Suddenly my senses went on alert. Someone was inside, waiting for me. I could smell the cigarette smoke. Since I had made no attempt to be silent, they had doubtless heard me by now. My only advantage was that I knew they were here.

  Then I told myself to stop being paranoid; nobody who was trying to sneak in would give himself away by smoking.

  Except that there were some terribly stupid people in the world. I tiptoed forward, toward the communicating door into the sitting room, and waited for a sound, but there was none. I made my way slowly through the doorway and toward my office.

  O’Rourke didn’t smoke, and he had no key to my place. I flattened myself against the wall and then, taking a deep breath, ducked through the doorway, fist doubled.

  “Bang,” Sandra said from my chair, with a tiny .25 pointed at me. “Micah, you got to do better than that.”

  I swore under my breath and relaxed my hand. “Damn it, Sandy, you could’ve gotten us both killed.”

  “No, honey. Just you. I’m the one with the gun, remember?” She slipped the automatic back into her leg holster with a laugh and reached for her cigarette. “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to put a scare into you. I figured you’d be coming up the front way and Papa Doc downstairs would tell you. I didn’t think you’d mind I picked your lock. I sure didn’t want to wait down there with him. I don’t like the way he looks at me, know what I mean?”

  I managed a weak smile. “Sure.”

  She yawned and crossed her long legs on my desk. “’Sides, it’s payday and I need my check.”

  “I’ll write it out,” I said, going to my desk drawer. She watched me, frowning, while I wrote out the sum and accepted her worksheet.

  “Micah, something wrong with you?” she asked. “You look like the freeway after the Sugar Bowl.”

  “Nothing,” I lied. “Just a little something I’m looking into right now.”

  “Something you need some help on?” she asked. “I could put off my trip to the Gulf Coast.”

  “No, thanks, Sandy,” I said, handing her the check. Then a thought struck me. Few people knew she worked for me. The beauty of living upstairs from Lavelle was that people coming to see me might just as easily be going to his shop, downstairs. To any of Ordaz’s goons, Sandra was just another black woman, easily lost in a crowd. “Tell me something. Do you have a good safe hiding place if I give you something to hold?”

  “How big?” she asked.

  I indicated with my hand.

  “Sure. What is it you want me to hold?”

  I opened my desk drawer and removed the jade. “I have to warn you, it could be dangerous,” I said.

  “Sho’nuf? Well, dis li’l old colored gal’ll hafta be keerful, won’t she?”

  I handed her the jade and she held it up to the light.

  “Hey, this is Mayan, isn’t it?”

  I smiled. “I didn’t know you were an art buff.”

  “It’s called a college course,” she said. “What you think I am, one of these nativistic types, doesn’t care for anything ’cept African masks?”

  “Of course not.” I pecked her on the cheek. “Thanks, Sandy.”

  “Anytime, sweetheart, anytime.” She swung her hips at me suggestively, batted her eyes, and I laughed. She patted me on the face, flounced across the room to the door, and was gone.

  I locked the door behind her and went back to my desk. There was a message on the answering machine and I played it back. It was Mrs. Murphy, giving me the telephone number of the hospital room. I dialed, half afraid of what I would find. It rang four times and then was answered by the hospital operator.

  “Captain Dunn,” I managed, my throat dry. “He wasn’t in his room.”

  The operator checked a list and then put me on hold. If it was bad, they probably wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone. If … The operator came back on. “Are you family, sir?”

  “His son.”

  “I see. Well, he’s in X-ray right now.”

  I thanked her and asked for the name of his doctor. Then I got the number from Directory Assistance and tried the doctor’s office, but I got an answering service. I left my name and replaced the phone, defeated.

  Don’t worry about things you can’t control; wasn’t that what he’d always said? Good advice, if you can manage. I made myself take out the list of names I had copied from the funeral register. Some I recognized, some were strangers: Thomas Fedders, Karl Hahn, Astrid Bancroft, Fred Gladney, Alice Farnsworth, Katherine Degas …

  I stared down at the Degas woman’s name, a little question taking shape in my mind. All along I had assumed she was in love with Thorpe, but stranger things had happened than a middle-aged woman’s becoming attached to a younger man.

  I was still staring at it when I heard the knocking on the door. “Mr. Dunn? Is anyone there?” It was a man’s voice, hesitant and yet vaguely familiar. I got up and went over to open the door.

  Fred Gladney grabbed my hand and shook it with both of his. “Mr. Dunn, thank God. I was so scared you weren’t here. Do you remember me? Astrid’s fiancé?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, stepping back. “Come in, Mr. Gladney.”

  He rushed in, his face pale and his clothes disheveled. He collapsed into my chair, breathing quickly, and I guessed he had been running to get here.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, taking a seat on the edge of the desk.

  He shook his head agitatedly. “It’s Astrid. You went to see her earlier.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s scared to death. She called me as soon as you left. She’s beside herself.”


  “Why?”

  “She’s afraid you’re going to accuse her of killing Leeds. I told her that was ridiculous, that you were just trying to make sense of what happened, but she was almost hysterical.” He raised himself slightly to lean forward. “She’s such a high-strung girl, Mr. Dunn. All she can think about is her work, and this has upset her.”

  “Why should she think I’d accuse her?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s what’s so crazy.” He jammed his hands down into his coat pockets and then brought them out again. “Oh, hell, I guess I might as well tell you, because you’ll find out, anyway.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Astrid—well, she had some problems a few years back, when she was in her second year at college. She was concentrating too hard and she had a breakdown. She had to be hospitalized for a while. Nobody down here knew about it. Nobody would have if she hadn’t told me. I kept telling her she ought to tell people, that it was an illness, just like heart trouble, but she refused. Now she’s scared to death you’ll find out and think she was holding out on you. That’s why I knew I had to come here and explain, to tell you she isn’t the kind to do that, even if we hadn’t been together all that night.”

  I regarded him thoughtfully. “What was the nature of her illness, Mr. Gladney?”

  “The diagnosis was schizophrenia,” he said, and then: “But it doesn’t matter. It’s all over with, done. She’s completely cured, don’t you see? She’s brilliant, the best student they’ve ever had. Her ideas will revolutionize Mayan archaeology.”

  “In what way?”

  Gladney gave me a rueful smile. “I’m not an expert, of course, but since I’ve been going with Astrid I’ve had to study it a little so I could understand what she was doing. What it seems to boil down to is a revision of the calendar correlation.”