Murdock Rocks Sedona

by Robert J. Ray

  Javier was a skinny kid, fifteen, with a big loop forehand and a two-fisted backhand. His job was court maintenance, hitting with guests for tips. On weekends, Javier played doubles with Ackerman and Teri Breedlove. Helene hit with Javier for an hour and felt better. The lights came on, and a chubby guest in tennis whites replaced Helene. She gave Javier a ten, and in perfect unaccented English, he said thanks. She looked around. No sign of Connie’s white SUV.

  The wind was chilly—too cold to sit outside—and Helene still had on her shorts and a sweater, so she took a window table in the Bell Rock Diner. The window looked east, onto the parking lot. From here she could see the sun flashing off vehicles on Highway 179. She could feel the buzz of coffee from an afternoon of trying to write, so she ordered Green Tea. She called Murdock on her cellphone. He was in Connie’s SUV, heading for Sedona Landing. Helene asked what they had found, then listened as Murdock briefed her on Findlay leaving a bar with two women—shadow dancers at the crime scene—and the landing place, a hard end for Walter Findlay, a corpse with no pants.

  Helene asked about Connie, who came onto the phone to comment on Murdock’s marvelous detective intuition. The admiration in Connie’s voice told Helene what she had suspected—Connie had eyes for Murdock. Helene caught the waitress, ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio.

  Helene tried to jot notes—the book kept calling to her—but she was thinking about Murdock and Connie, the end of the day, night coming on, how your life could change in an instant.

  Helene’s wine was gone when the white sheriff’s SUV pulled into the parking lot. It sat there, like the jalopy at the curb just before midnight curfew in a sappy teenage romance, last-minute kissing before the girl runs inside, back to the family. Connie and Murdock were taking a long time to say goodbye.

  Her cellphone buzzed. It was Ackerman. He wanted her and Murdock for dinner. His voice did not sound shaky. Where were they on the case?

  Helene watched Murdock leave the white SUV. He did not close the door right away. They were still talking. Helene felt a rush of heat, jealousy, anger. Murdock closed the door. Connie drove off. Murdock turned toward the hotel—could he see Helene behind this window?—and raised his hand. Her heart took a leap. If there was so much love, why did she feel so empty?

  Chapter 13

  Freddy Delaplane came into the bar at the Inn of the Fathers Hotel and saw what he wanted. She sat at the bar between two guys.

  She had black hair and a silky red neck scarf and a tight ass.

  He wanted her in his bed with her legs open.

  He wanted her to beg for it.

  She turned, laughing, and grabbed the arm of the guy on her right. Her mouth was open. Freddy saw white teeth and a smooth throat. She was dark, Mexican or South American, with a hooked nose straight from ancient Rome. The guy on the left went away and Freddy took his seat.

  He introduced himself. Her name was Doreen—a disappointment there, not classy enough. But the skirt was up above the knee, and the sheer black stockings sent his brain whirling, and when the other guy left, they took a table. Her card said Doreen Dorado, Dorado and Associates, Beverly Hills. Freddy knew his way in the business world. The word “associates” was code for a one-woman shop.

  “Real estate?” he said.

  “A lowly bean-counter,” she said. “What about you?”

  “I dabble,” Freddy said. “Software, shipping and handling, my background was in banking. But enough about me. You live in L.A., which means I live just up the road from you, in Pebble Beach.”

  “A beautiful area,” she said. “What brings you to Santa Fe in a snowstorm?”

  “Trying to save the country.”

  “Save it from what?”

  “Burning itself to a crisp,” he said. “Running out of water—small stuff like that.”

  “Does saving the country include saving little old me?”

  Her question got him going on politics. He was here in Santa Fe for a strategy session. His group was called LFA, Let’s Fix America. There was a website, they needed members, was she interested? The job of LCA was putting the right people into office, fiscal conservatives. He got going on morality and religion, God was not dead, lecturing, aware of his own voice. He loved making speeches, he was on the right side, gotta do something with all that money. He was off to Paris for a conference on oil, but first a stop in Sedona, where he was buying a hotel.

  Doreen Dorado stood up. Something in her face told him he had turned her off, all that political stuff. Freddy loved politics; he was good-looking, he was thinking about running for office. She walked away, stopped, then came back to him and held out her hand. He took it.

  His heart thumped as she led him to a sofa. Pulled him down beside her. The skirt rose to mid-thigh. He saw bare skin, a dark exotic flash above the stocking-tops. He wondered if she was wearing underwear. He was the hunter, she was the prey. She didn’t seem to mind. He wanted to kiss her. Better to let her make the first move. She wanted another drink. Her hip was tight against him. Her blouse was open; he felt invited. He looked down and saw darkness and wanted more of this one. He wanted to eat her up.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “No way.”

  “A business thing,” she said. “Before I ran into you … gotta feed the old bank account.”

  He gave her a business card. She read it, taking her time. Then tucked it away into a black evening purse. He invited her to see his Pebble Beach place … if she was in the area.

  “I love your take on the world,” she said. “If I joined your group, maybe we could see each other again.”

  Her hand squeezed his leg. She had strong fingers. He felt the jangle, an erection starting. He turned to her; time for a kiss. She squeezed harder. But when he tried to kiss her, she said, “Not here.”

  “Where?”

  “I should go,” she said.

  “Go where?”

  “Like I said, I’m meeting someone.”

  “Cancel it. You’re with me tonight.”

  “I’ve got some time tomorrow. We could—”

  “I’m gone tomorrow, like I said. Sedona, then Paris.”

  “You’re scaring me, Mr. Delaplane.”

  “I certainly don’t intend to.”

  “Look,” she said. “You’re very rich, you don’t hide it. I find that very attractive and you’re very good-looking and I’m still trying to shake free from a sticky relationship and—”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Tell you about what, Mr. Delaplane?”

  “Your sticky relationship. Because I myself am trying to get—”

  “You’re married, aren’t you? A good-looking guy like you, you’re so, I don’t know …. I’d better go.”

  When she stood up this time, she lost her balance and grabbed onto his shoulder and the thighs were in his face, a split second of closeness. Her scent made him crazy, and she was saying, “So sorry, omigod, Frederick,” and her hand was holding onto his collar, warm hand, and she smelled like musky perfume and he wanted her in his bed. He told her he was getting a divorce. He did not say it was divorce number three. She said, “Sorry,” and edged away.

  Freddy watched her go. Goodbye, Dorado. His night on the town was shot. A woman sat at the window, looking out at the snow. She had blonde hair, a Valentine face … he knew her from somewhere. Freddy sipped his drink. The woman at the window was not Doreen Dorado. He was gearing up to try his luck when his phone beeped. It was Doreen. Her voice was breathless. She invited him to the Bell Tower.

  “Take the elevator,” she said. “Bring brandy, like you’re a St. Bernard on a rescue mission.”

  Freddy bought a bottle. He was alone in the elevator, his brain dancing with flashes of male conquest, himself on top, thrusting deep. Take that, hot bean-counter bitch. The Bell Tower was outside in the weather and he needed to grab her and get her inside before they both froze. He planned to make this quick. Have a drink and a kiss and get her to his room and into his bed,
strip off everything except the black stockings.

  The elevator door opened into cold wind. She waited by the doorway that led to the stairs. She wore a black parka from North Face.

  “Are you crazy? We’ll freeze up here.”

  “This is a character test, Mr. D.”

  She did not ask for brandy. When they kissed, he felt her leg slide between his thighs. Then his hand was under the black skirt, feeling the raw heat, the hot lights of sexual conquest exploding in his head. Her tongue filled his mouth cavity, filled the universe. She had her teeth on his upper lip. One bite and he would bleed. Where had she come from? Who was she? She made him forget the cold.

  The door to the stairway was open—he didn’t know how—and they were turning in a slow circle. She said, “Let’s get down, Frederick,” and someone grabbed his collar from behind—the blonde from the bar, she looked familiar, pulling him away from sexy Doreen. His brain was on red alert as a pair of hands from nowhere whirled him down the narrow stairwell, bouncing him off a wall, slamming his shoulder, hip, elbow—he heard the bone crack. Then a pain in his head, boom, and stars rushing at him, a giant yellow asteroid, followed by a cold, merciless, uncaring dark.

  Chapter 14

  Tonight, watching Freddy fall, Charity Plum felt old.

  She heard someone whispering and turned to see Karla, her face tight, her lips pursed.

  “Come on, girl.”

  “What?” Charity said.

  “Check the neck.”

  “You do it,” Charity said.

  “Not part of the deal,” Karla said.

  “Are you cold?” Charity said. “All that shivering?”

  “Check the neck, Charity.”

  Charity sent Karla ahead—you go first, girl—straight onto San Francisco Street. Charity waited, two minutes, then three, before she headed for the exit to Cathedral Street, a thick door, heavy with age, a tradition reaching back to Spain. The smirky female bartender was in the entryway, lighting a cigarette. She blew smoke at Charity, invitation sent.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself,” Charity said.

  “I’m Ginger.”

  They shook, and Charity felt heat. This woman was coming onto her. Through the glass panes, Charity saw snow falling straight down.

  Ginger the bartender was not bad looking, younger than Charity. She wanted to buy Charity a drink. Sorry, she had a plane to catch, but Charity was tempted. There was suffocating loneliness after a kill, and Karla—the one Charity wanted—was so unavailable.

  Then she saw Karla crossing the street, black on white, vulnerable in high heels. She made an excuse and headed into the falling snow.

  In the hotel, Karla counted her money from the pay envelope.

  “You’re short again, girl.”

  “I am not the paymaster,” Charity said. “I only get half; you get half of that.”

  “What’s Mr. X up to, Charity?”

  “You don’t need to know … ever.”

  “This is Job Four,” Karla said. “You get the plan early; you tell me at the last minute. I hate that. You can prepare, get yourself psyched. I’m like walking onto a stage without a script. Then you short me and blame it on Mr. X.”

  “I keep my promises,” Charity said. “We split everything fifty-fifty.”

  “You’re fucking him, right?”

  “What’s gotten into you, girl?”

  “I can tell because you get all gooey when you talk about him, this Mr. X guy. You know something I don’t. You think it gives you power.”

  “You had a chance to know me,” Charity said. “You shut me out.”

  “When we’re done,” Karla said, “you’re gonna tell me why he wants these guys dead.”

  Charity watched Karla turn away, thinking how anger made her even more beautiful, like a dark goddess. She watched Karla close the zipper on her rucksack. Charity preferred a nice suitcase, a matching carry-on; she was not a rucksack person. Karla hefted the rucksack, walked to the door, not so pretty now. The anger in her face had shifted to regret. Karla was tough on the outside, soft down deep.

  “What’s up with you, girl?”

  “I kind of liked this last guy. He was lonely, asked me to call him Freddy.”

  “Men are trouble and you’re a fool.”

  “He invited me to visit him in Pebble Beach. With him I could have made it work.”

  “He was a man,” Charity said. “Men are heartless bastards. You give, they take.”

  “Not this one,” Karla said. “When we kissed, he was into me, like totally.”

  “You’re losing your edge,” Charity said.

  Charity headed west on Airport Boulevard.

  Snowflakes snapped against the windshield.

  Karla sat in her seat, arms folded, fuming.

  The tower at the Santa Fe airport was adobe, with slanted windows up top. Before she got out, Karla asked again about the money and Mr. X, showing her doggedness. Her voice had an edge. Her eyes glittered in the half-dark.

  “It’s need to know,” Charity said. “Remember the rules.”

  “You were good tonight, with that guy.”

  “What do you mean, good?”

  “Familiar,” Karla said. “Like you knew him from way back.”

  “I never saw him before,” Charity said.

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “If I got invited to your house,” Charity said. “And if I got asked to stay over, then Pandora’s Box might open—you’d know everything.”

  “Remember the rules,” Karla said.

  “What rules?”

  “Rules by your Mr. X,” Karla said. “Two girls, two different travel arrangements.”

  “He’ll never know, hon.”

  “Now you’re the one who’s losing her edge.”

  The door opened, snowflakes flew in, sharp as knives. The door closed. Charity watched Karla walk toward the terminal. She hated watching her walk away. So beautiful, so strong, so hopeless, gone.

  At Bernalillo, the snow softened, stopped. The drive to Albuquerque was clear. Charity turned in the rental car, took a shuttle to her hotel, the Hawthorn Suites, where she used her Sharon Gold credit card. In the room, she checked her phone—no message from Joey. Charity soaked in the fancy bathtub.

  She made the call from her bed, sipping a martini. “Santa Fe went down just fine,” she said. “Where is the money?” Karla would have said, Where is the Fucking money? Where is the Goddamn money? But Charity was raised in the church, and Mama said that dirty talk came from a place of dirt and that was Hades.

  She checked the time, after midnight. She was into Tuesday and she had money parked in The King George Bank in the Caymans, where she had a date for Saturday, an old Southern boy who wore suits by Palm Beach, sporting a planter’s hat.

  He was already talking marriage.

  Day Two

  Chapter 15

  Helene’s phone had this little trill, a snatch from a Bach partita. She was awake when it rang, her mind working on her relationship problem with Murdock. The caller was Ackerman. He wanted them upstairs, and his voice sounded shaky.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just get up here,” Ackerman said.

  “Axel,” Helene said. “What is it?”

  “Goddamn Freddy Delaplane,” Ackerman said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead,” Ackerman said. “Just get Murdock and get up here.”

  The Penthouse level was number ten. The elevator door opened, and Helene saw Bruno holding the big black entry door. He thanked them for coming. They asked about Ackerman. Bruno shook his head, “He hates to be wrong.”

  In the penthouse living room, Axel Ackerman was pacing the floor, gripping a coffee mug. The TV was on, a snow report from New Mexico. Santa Fe was icy—stay home if you can. Helene gave Ackerman a hug. She beckoned to Murdock, and the three of them hugged like a family. Ackerman’s face was pale, but not dead white like yesterday. He had a
number on a notepad, and these words: “Calderon, State Cop, tell him I know the fucking governor.”

  Helene passed the phone to Murdock. “Tell Julio hello. He’s my favorite cop.”

  She led Ackerman to the sofa.

  *****

  Murdock wanted privacy for the phone call, somewhere quiet where he could focus. He walked down the hallway to the executive spa, a combination weight-room and billionaire pleasure palace. It smelled of rubber and leather, sweat and steam and sweet massage oil.

  Murdock sat on the massage table and called Julio Calderon. Julio was an orderly guy, a good cop with political ambitions and a captain in the New Mexico state police. In their last case, he had used the power of office to shield Murdock and Helene from the media. When Julio answered, his voice was calm, polite, and familiar. He was at the crime scene, the Inn of the Fathers, a four-star hotel in Santa Fe.

  “Hey, compadre,” Julio said. “How’s life in peaceful Sedona?”

  “We’ve got sun,” Murdock said. “High today will be fifty-seven.”

  “Your boss,” Julio said, “he’s got some major political juice. I got called out of bed by the lieutenant governor. What are you doing for this guy Ackerman?”

  “Bodyguarding,” Murdock said. “Digging up the past.”

  “What past?”

  Murdock briefed Julio on the men from Ackerman’s Crew who had died from falling. Tyler, Coolidge, Findlay—and now Delaplane. He mentioned the hotel, the gathering of old pals, a reunion of investors, their last job together. Julio knew about private equity—he called it Vulture Capitalism, a leftover from the Romney election campaign. Julio had called Ackerman because Delaplane’s PDA listed Ackerman’s phone number.

  Julio said, “They found the dead guy at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Bell Tower. It’s closed for the winter. They suspect alcohol in his blood stream. No sign of foul play; they’re calling it accidental. How close was your guy to this guy?”