Giselle Roux handed Helene a cup of coffee.
“How well do you know Karla?” Helene said.
“A few months. Since the massages started.”
“Is she licensed?”
“In six states,” Giselle said.
“Do you know where she’s from?”
“Los Angeles, I think. But she’s had some Army time.”
“Like Mr. Cypher,” Helene said. “And Murdock.”
“Something going on with you two?” Giselle said.
“You’re very observant.”
“If you wanna talk,” Giselle said. “I’m your girl.”
Helene smiled. They touched coffee cups. She could be friends with this woman.
*****
Karla’s phone call was from Charity Plum. She was lonely; she wanted to visit tomorrow. They could have some dinner, a couple drinks, no play-acting, no worries, just be themselves. Karla said no, she needed to be alone. She was busy, she had a new boyfriend—not her first fib.
“What’s his name?”
“Josh,” Karla said, plucking a name from the movies.
“Is he older than you?”
“None of your business,” Karla said.
“You get off on making me jealous,” Charity said.
“Where’s the money, Charity?”
“All right. It came this morning.”
“Any explanation … for the delay, I mean?”
“He’s a man, sweetie. All men are pricks.”
“Send me the fucking money,” Karla said.
“Doesn’t it count that I love you?” Charity said.
“I’ve got to run, Charity. Customers waiting.”
“You’re not at work,” Charity said. “I can tell.”
“Goodbye, Charity.”
“So where are you, sweetie?”
Karla hung up. Her hands were icy again, major stress from the phone call. Charity needed love, she hated men, that left Karla. Why did life have to be so messy? As she re-entered the Yavapai Room, Karla smiled. What would Charity do if she found out that she was the model for Faith Marie Hunsaker, the killer in Karla’s fledgling crime story?
Chapter 36
Murdock jogged to Red Rock Coffee. The sun was out, the sky empty of clouds, warm enough for shorts and a vest. The rhythm of running got his brain going on the Ackerman Case.
It was a shell game, Murdock against an unseen trickster, wearing a black tuxedo, white gloves, a top hat, a silken cloak.
There were three shells, red, white, and black. The trickster moved the shells around.
Murdock chose white.
The trickster lifted the white shell, empty.
Murdock touched the black shell.
It was empty too.
The trickster lifted the red shell and there was the clue, sitting there, but before Murdock could grab it, the trickster closed the cloak, a magical swirl of pricey black silk. Then he was gone.
Inside Red Rock Coffee, Murdock saw Cypher at the corner table, talking to Teri Breedlove. She wore the shorts, the knee sox, the barista uniform. She was leaning over the table. The neck chain dangled, and bright light winked off the little silver ring. As Murdock walked up, she held out her wrists. “Cuff me, please. Take me to your dungeon.” Then she laughed.
“Ackerman’s waiting,” Murdock said.
“What are you bad boys up to … or is it just coffee today?”
Breedlove walked away, her tight hips synched. Murdock shook hands with Cypher, then sat down.
Cypher’s face was serious.
When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “Did you hear about the shooting last night? It must have been quite frightening. It was close to my street. Yet I heard nothing; my neighbors heard nothing. One minute, it was a normal night in the Village. The next minute, police vehicles, no sirens, nothing. Did you ever wonder why they drive those Crown Vics?”
“Muscle car, I guess.”
“Someone said you were there, you and Miss Steinbeck.”
“Who was that?”
“A neighbor recognized her, I believe.”
“We were scoping the place out.”
“Find anything?” Cypher said.
“How far is your place from Number Ten?”
“I’m on Fox Hollow, maybe three blocks, why do you ask?”
“We were doing a recon for Ackerman,” Murdock said. “He sent us to check on a guy named Ramsay. Maybe you know him—lives in Dallas, he runs Ramsbanc.”
Cypher stared at Murdock. “There have been no names on the news. Are you certain?”
“That’s what the cops say.”
“This is crazy,” Cypher said. “Ramsay is brokering the counter-offer, fronting for those Arab buyers. We had a meeting set for today.”
“You ever have dealings with Ramsbanc before?” Murdock said.
“Well,” Cypher said. “They did try to buy Vortex Bank.”
When was that?”
“Last year. I took it to my board; they said no.”
“Is the bank stock traded in New York?”
“The stock is privately held,” Cypher said.
“Is there a majority stock-holder?”
Cypher nodded again. His face went blank. Then he glanced past Murdock, out the window. Something he saw in the parking lot made Cypher stand up. One minute he was seated, bent over his coffee, asking about the massacre. The next, he was out of the chair, eyes narrowed, red alert, Cypher the soldier in combat mode.
From their table to the front door was fifty feet, maybe sixty. To get to the door, you had to weave your way through tables. Some of the customers were hefty, the kind of people who took up extra space in a room, in an airplane seat, at a café table. No problem for Cypher, he was through the door in seconds. His exit was slick, smooth, flawless. The fast way to the bank was along Hummingbird Street. Murdock kept watch, no sign of Cypher, why would he take long way around?
Chapter 37
Cypher hated leaving Murdock. He liked the man, felt a kinship growing.
Two old soldiers, jolted out of uniform, thrust back into civvies. A man needed a friend, someone to stand beside him. Someone to say, I’ve got your back, Buddy.
Cypher stood with his yellow bike behind a silver SUV, watching the senator and his CIA toady. When they went inside, Cypher headed back to the bank.
Wheeling along, hearing the hiss of bike tires on asphalt, Cypher retraced his life after Father died.
He remembered shooting in ROTC.
He shot Marksman in high school. Sharpshooter in college. Expert in the Army.
They sent him to sniper school, then to the Hindu Kush. He had orders to kill Bin Laden. He saw life, then death, through the cross-hairs, a trigger pull away.
He remembered Kabul. A cold day. He was on leave, drinking with Judson Jarvis, when the gunfire started, a fusillade.
Humvee under attack, VIP on board.
Cypher was armed. He wore a vest, regulations for off-base personnel. He cleared rooftops with his side-arm. Jarvis covered him while he pulled the VIP from the Humvee. More gunfire. Jarvis went down. The VIP needed help. Jarvis needed help. Cypher had a choice—save Jarvis, his best buddy, his only friend, or save the CIP. Jarvis was a soldier. He told Cypher to save the VIP, a really bad decision. Cypher hauled the VIP to safety, then he went back for Jarvis. The Humvee exploded. Cypher woke up in the hospital, bandages on his face. A nurse told him: After a couple more surgeries, Captain, you’re gonna look like a movie star.
He remembered his voice breaking when he asked, “What about Jarvis?”
When he reached his bank, Cypher stared through the window of his glass-walled cage. Inside the cage, he saw his friend and benefactor, Mr. Norman Maddux. Cypher’s heart leaped. Mr. Maddux was not dead after all. He was sitting across the desk from Judson Jarvis—he was not dead either. The man next to Jarvis was Murdock. They were drinking beer, waiting for Cypher. Murdock motioned to Cypher through the glass. Come on in. Three glasses raised
by three good friends, waving Cypher inside. Tears blurred his vision. A man needed friends. The voice in his head told him he was seeing things. You’re losing it, bro.
Cypher’s hands fumbled with the bike lock. A tiny shard of metal nicked his finger, blood oozed out. He hurried inside. Time was short if you had a proper schedule. Before he died, he would raise a glass with his friends.
Inside the bank, Marta asked if he was okay. He stared at her. What was she talking about? Outside the glass door, he looked in again. No one there. No Maddux, no Jarvis, no Murdock—just Father’s big oversize desk, the last remaining relic from the family business.
Marta arrived with a tissue.
“What?” he said.
“Your finger, Jeremy, it’s bleeding.”
Chapter 38
Minutes after Cypher split, Murdock saw Monty Featherstone holding the door for a fat man in Arizona rancher garb—barn jacket, Levi shirt, sweat-stained Stetson—a politician trying to stand out. Murdock recognized Hiram Fish, Senior Senator from Texas.
Featherstone nodded at Murdock. A barista with red hair tried to seat them at a table up front. Fish shook her off and pointed at Murdock’s table. Unlike Cypher, who moved through the tables like a dancer, Fish slammed into a guy who’d been headed for the men’s room. The guy went down. Fish pivoted, his face red with anger, and collided with a barista carrying a tray. Cups and plates clattered when they hit the floor. Fish grunted, said he was sorry—here’s my business card, sweetheart, you call my office—and stuck out his hand to Murdock.
Murdock was helping, squatted down, holding two porcelain cups and a broken saucer. The barista glared at Fish, pointed to coffee stains on her blouse, thanks for ruining my day.
As a politico, Fish was all grins and handshakes. Murdock opened his gooey hand—Fish stared at the goo. The barista arrived with a towel. Murdock wiped off the goo. Fish looked impatient, man with the tight schedule. Compulsory handshake over, Fish took Murdock’s chair.
The room was watching, an audience waiting for the next sound-bite. Hey, welcome to YouTube. A guy across the room was aiming his cellphone; he had Fish digitized. Then Featherstone was there, flashing his Federal ID. A few words and the guy lowered the device and headed for the door. A woman two tables away tucked her phone away. The Senator’s YouTube moment was squelched.
Fish stood 5’8”, weighed maybe 240 pounds, a roly-poly testament to obesity in America. He leaned across the table, his eyes gleamed. At the coffee machine, Featherstone was grinning at Breedlove; her face was flushed. Fish jerked his head, indicating Featherstone.
“My man Monty there, he said you found them bodies last night.”
“We called the cops,” Murdock said. “They found the bodies.”
“How’d you know to even call the cops?”
“There was blood on the kitchen wall,” Murdock said. “Broken glass on the floor. There was a body. We saw the feet, a piece of trouser leg.”
“Durn,” Fish said. “Who’d that turn out to be?”
“The guy we saw was named Ramsay. A Texas banker.”
Fish nodded, donned his sad face. “Me and Gerry, we were best buds. He was having money trouble, so I put him in touch with them Arabs, and that makes me feel like it was maybe … you know how big them Arabs were?”
“How big, Senator?” Murdock said.
“The young prince wanted a casino and since his daddy owns half the oil under that Saudi sandbox, there was no problem. So I brokered a deal with Ramsay, and now this shit …. Somebody’s gotta tell his daddy. That somebody would be …. Whoa, here’s my java, and, hello, sweetheart.”
Fish was reacting to Teri Breedlove, carrying a breakfast plate—muffins, Danish, bacon, toast, butter, a little pot of red jam. Fish grabbed a coffee, sipped, then beamed at Teri Breedlove. They shook hands.
“Pretty ring you got there,” Fish said.
“Thank you, Senator.”
“Mind if I took me a closer look?”
Teri was no dummy. She pulled the chain over her head, then dangled the Purity Ring in front of Fish. His fat hand, delivering a message, fondled the ring.
He quizzed her. Was she a good Christian? She said of course. Would she like to work for him? Campaign stuff. She said she already worked for Ackerman. Fish gave her a greasy smile, handed her a business card. Christians should work for Christians. How much was the old Jew paying her? Teri Breedlove gave Fish a dirty look, grabbed her ring, and hurried away. Fish watched her go. “Durn,” he said, “that is one fine example of American womanhood.”
At the coffee bar, Teri dropped Fish’s business card into the trash.
“Fucking Axel Ackerman,” Fish said. “That old Jew always has them bitches lined up, ready for ….”
Murdock shoved his chair back, making extra noise. It was time to go, escape the stink of politics. Fish put a hand on Murdock’s arm. “Stick around,” Fish said. “I’ll introduce you to our next President.”
A handsome man came through the door of Red Rock Coffee. He was tanned, his face was craggy, and he wore a blue shirt, corduroys, and a leather jacket. Fish introduced Murdock. The tanned man was Senator James “Jimbo” Gypsum, a power-politician with two bodyguards. One was a thick Latino, who hovered by the door. The other was an Anglo, an ex-soldier like Murdock.
Jimbo did not look like a Jimbo. Instead, he looked like Gary Cooper in High Noon. His handshake was solid. His stance was presidential. He was pleased to meet Murdock and very disappointed that Murdock could not stay … for the pow-wow.
There was much to be gained in talking. Fish and Gypsum were experts at the art. Their words held a special emptiness. They talked service—they meant combat with the opposition, fighting to control the money-spigots.
Murdock was outside, breathing the air, when Monty Featherstone caught up with him.
“The senator wants to set up a meeting.”
“Why are you working for this guy, Monty?”
“I told you. It’s my pension. When can you meet?”
“Next week.”
“The senator wants a meeting later today, around five.”
“I won’t be in town,” Murdock said.
“Where will you be?”
“In another town.”
“Do you understand what you’re doing here?” Featherstone said. “One phone call, he can have Homeland Security put you on the watch list, he can—”
“Get a grip, Monty.”
Murdock jogged up the hill. His lungs felt better; the night-time runs were working. He saw Ackerman on Court One, practicing his serve. Someone behind Murdock was calling his name. He saw Teri Breedlove on her bike; she wanted to rant about Fish.
“That fat derp claims to be a Christian, he’s just a dirty little man. Why didn’t you say something?”
“What’s a derp?” Murdock said.
“Like it sounds,” she said. “How does he know Axel?”
“Dallas boys,” Murdock said. “How is Axel?”
“His game’s been wacko ever since Monday,” she said, “when he heard about poor old Walter. When are you gonna solve this thing?”
“Maybe today,” Murdock said.
“Well, get a move on, dude. Yolo.”
Before he could ask the meaning of Yolo, she was gone. Legs pumping, hair flying, aware of being watched.
Murdock’s cellphone rang. It was Helene. The workshop was on a break. Her voice sounded flat. Ackerman’s plane was ready for Amarillo. Murdock wanted her to go with him.
“Come with me,” Murdock said.
“One of us needs to be here,” Helene said.
“Bruno’s here,” Murdock said. “There are cops everywhere.”
“I have a date,” Helene said.
“Who with?” Murdock said.
“It’s Axel,” Helene said. “He’s taking me to the gun range in Cottonwood. Why don’t you ask Connie for a ride? She’s been mooning around, asking about you.”
“If you took me to the airport,
” Murdock said, “we could talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Talk about us,” Murdock said.
“Our break is over,” Helene said. “Gotta get back to my writers. Have fun digging.”
The phone went dead. Murdock felt dead. On the tennis court, Teri Breedlove was across the net from Ackerman, feeding him balls, making it easy.
Chapter 39
The lunch traffic slacked off at two. It was Wednesday, and the valley buzzed with death. Who would die tonight? Was there a curse on Oak Creek Village? Teri Breedlove had a date with Olivia Olivera, to tour the crime scene. Teri finished clearing tables, consulted her cell. The time was 3:51. If she left now, she could buzz by Vortex Bank.
She checked with Karla, who was acting manager.
“Go with God,” Karla said.
Teri rode her bike. The sun was diving toward the mountains. She parked her bike; she had left her lock at Sedona Landing.
She saw Jeremy in his office, on his red phone.
He held up a hand, stopping her.
Through the glass wall, she saw a yellow legal pad and an old lead pencil. Jeremy was very old school. There were all these drawing programs online. Why didn’t he use one? Next to the yellow pad was Jeremy’s copy of the Odyssey, that big deal journey of this Greek warrior war-hero guy trying to get home so he could murder this absolute crowd of creeps who wanted to nail the wife. Her name was Penelope. She was weaving this shroud-thing, stalling for time until her honey got back home. Teri had been AP in high school and graduated a year early. Her class had read the Odyssey; Teri had gotten the plot from Google.
The phone call over, Jeremy waved her in. He looked tired. He asked what she wanted. She told him about her date with Olivera, one thirty on Foxglove Lane. He shook his head. He was doing that a lot lately. He wanted her gone, she could tell; she could read this guy like a smartphone. She tried some small talk.
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