“Whose idea was this fish-bowl office, dude?”
“It’s a legacy,” he said, “from Mr. Maddux.”
“It makes me feel like everyone is watching. That’s so weird.”
“It represents transparency,” he said. “What the world needs more of.”
Teri picked up the Odyssey. There was a marker near the end. She opened the book, saw pencil marks, jottings, a circle, a square, two triangles. She could read the numbers but not the words—the handwriting was small and scrawly. The hero guy, Ulysses, had just whacked off the head of a suitor.
“You still reading this?”
“I’m a slow reader,” he said.
“All these marks at the end,” she said. “Like that massacre last night—Foxglove Lane is so close to our house. It’s creepy.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Doing your tennis thing?”
“My date with Olivia,” she said. “And this goes into my piggy bank.”
Teri pulled out the cash from Axel, nine hundred dollars—two weeks of tennis with Axel, less one hundred for essentials. She wanted the cash in her safe deposit box. Jeremy rang for Marta. Teri held up the yellow legal pad. Boxes, arrows, numbers.
“What’s this, dude?”
“It’s a floor plan of the CRMC, drawn from memory.”
“You sick or something?”
“Going to visit a sick friend.”
“When?”
“Friday, if things work out. Here’s Marta; she’ll take care of you.”
When Jeremy acted weird, it was time to split. Teri headed for the glass door. Marta smiled, not a friendly smile, but the smile of a competitor, another chick with a crush on Jeremy. Marta went out. Teri was about to follow when Jeremy told her about the possible interview.
“Who am I interviewing?” she said.
“One of the suspects,” he said.
“The usual suspects?”
“A suspect with one of two possible connections,” he said.
“You missed my joke,” she said. “Usual? As in Usual Suspects?”
“You’ll need to scare up a nurse uniform,” he said.
“I got it, for the CRMC.”
“If you can’t locate a nurse uniform by Thursday,” he said, “please inform me. I’ll make some calls.”
“Swaggy,” she said.
“Yolo,” he said.
“Can I get a hug?”
“Not a good time,” he said.
She left Vortex Bank wondering why Jeremy didn’t catch her little joke. Last summer, he had told her to watch that old movie, The Usual Suspects. A cool flick, but majorly retro. She remembered the little frisson when Kevin Spacey turned from a cripple into an easy-walking guy. She remembered thinking, so this cool guy was hiding himself by walking funny; he made you think he was a cripple. How was Jeremy hiding himself?
She was still running with that idea—the masks of Jeremy Cypher—when she parked her bike at Ten Foxglove Lane, where Olivia Olivera, crime scene tech, waited in her van.
Chapter 40
Ackerman’s plane lifted off the tarmac at Geronimo Airport. Murdock watched the shadow fade as they gained elevation. They flew east, away from the afternoon sun, into the coming dark. Across New Mexico and on into Texas, they fought strong headwinds. The wind was blowing hard when they touched down in Amarillo.
Ackerman had a car waiting—a giant Cadillac Escalade with Texas plates. The driver was cowboy sporty, a white Stetson, a Western-cut suit and green snakeskin boots. His name was Rowdy. He dropped Murdock off at the Marriott. Ackerman had reserved a corner suite complete with a Jacuzzi and a bidet. No need for a bidet when you traveled alone, when your woman stayed behind.
Murdock needed to move—plane rides made him feel like a mummy—so he walked from the hotel through the downtown. In a Walgreen’s, he bought a little notebook, spiral bound. Then he walked to the library, buffeted by the North Texas wind. The library closed in one hour. He spent that hour digging and found a news story announcing that Wilson’s Fine Furniture had been acquired by Arc-Angel Equity.
He lingered on the word, acquired—the noun was acquisition, a big poly-syllable that cloaked the buying process, made it seem okay. Like it was better to say “acquired a dozen slaves” and avoid using the word buy—“gonna buy me a dozen slaves.”
First you acquired, then you sold. What was the accepted business lingo for selling? The word floated at him from the printed page—divestiture, a long word, four syllables worn like a mask. Helene would know the meaning. Maybe he should call her. Maybe she was taking a shower, naked, water streaming. The image stirred Murdock. No sex since Taos.
The dictionary sat atop a pedestal. An American Heritage product, it told you the roots of words. Murdock’s fingers felt clumsy, flipping pages. Divestiture had three definitions. Murdock jotted them into his notebook:
One: to strip off, like getting out of your clothes.
Two: to free yourself of, the synonym was rid.
Three: to sell off property, the synonym was dispose of.
A front-page photo showed Ackerman’s five-man Crew, thirty years younger, forming a half-circle around Joseph Woodrow Wilson, the founder of Wilson’s Fine Furniture. The men identified in the photo, left to right, were Tyler, Coolidge, Findlay, and Delaplane—all dead. The man identified as George Hawthorne was on the end. He looked younger, blond hair tousled by the breeze, the classic facial features of a film-star.
The library was closing, ten minutes. A bearded guy in a thick jacket and battered boots headed for the men’s room, last stop before he faced the sharp wind. And the night.
Murdock stopped at the information desk, where a woman with rose-colored glasses listened, her face a mask of impatience.
She pointed to the clock on the wall—seven minutes to closing—then led him to a distant shelf crammed with high school yearbooks dating back to 1901. Murdock wanted to see the other end of the acquisition—would the writer use words like divestiture? He found the article reference, “New York Firm Divests Itself Of Local Entrepreneurial Holdings.” The author of the article was Gerald R. Ramsay. The name jumped out at Murdock, Gerry Ramsay in Amarillo, Gerry Ramsay and Honest Joe Wilson. Was the writer of this article the same fat-faced prick who had been in cahoots with that maniac in Taos? There was more story than Murdock could grab in four minutes.
At the desk, he asked the woman with the glasses if he could print an article. Sorry, he would need instruction, and the library was closing. Then he asked if there was any library staff member who had been around thirty years ago. There was a volunteer. Mrs. Dorothy Stanhope. She would be in at ten, sharp, tomorrow.
Day Four
Chapter 41
Ackerman rolled out of bed.
It look longer than usual because his legs felt weak, squishy muscles, ancient bones. His right knee made that popping sound. He braced himself, one hand on the wall, breathing hard, while he stretched. The bedside clock said 12:02—after midnight, a new day starting. Would they try to kill him today?
His feet found the Birkenstocks. He pulled on the gray robe, which smelled like old age and death. The wine glass was empty, needed a refill—wash your grief away on a sea of purple grape. In the bathroom, he peed. He swirled blue mouthwash, but the taste of wine lingered. He moved—right foot, left foot, bathroom to bed, bed to door, door to hallway. Voices came from down the hall.
Heat came from the living room. No one there, just a fake fire flickering. Voices from the kitchen, where Ackerman found Giselle Roux in jeans and a baggy sweater, her arms folded, talking to Bruno. In his shoulder holster and the inevitable white turtleneck, Bruno’s face looked even blacker. Bruno was sixty and steadfast, like an ancient tree that grew in a sacred grove. Ackerman regarded Bruno as his brother, two outcasts who walked the razor’s edge.
Bruno filled a coffee mug, added sugar and half-n-half. Giselle supplied water and twin Tylenols.
Giselle followed Ackerman back to the bedroom. Held
the coffee mug while he got into bed. Stood there waiting. She wanted something. At that moment, she was worth every dollar of her contract, two million a year. At that moment, feeling his world collapsing, Giselle and Bruno were Ackerman’s family. Would the killer kill them too?
He tugged on Giselle’s hand. She sat on the edge of the bed. He tugged again, come closer. She shook her head. Giselle smelled sweet, like an exotic flower, and Ackerman was the honey bee. He sipped his coffee. She was thirty-one years old. She had been with Ackerman for a dozen years, twelve one-year contracts starting at eighty thousand. That first year, working for Credit Lyonnais, assigned as Ackerman’s interpreter in Paris, nineteen years old, a slender gazelle of a girl from Montreal. He loved her body, the subtle slimness of her wrists and ankles, the surprising expanse of white girl bottom, presented for Ackerman’s pleasure on the big bed in the Paris Ritz in exchange for his presentation of the necklace of emeralds that matched her eyes.
Her skin was so white, so sleek. The devilish laughter in the eyes, the low-voiced chuckle, the slender back arched, shoulder blades like bird wings, his fingers tracing the bones of her white spine. She had a dancer’s body and the agile brain of a female raptor, good with numbers. Her red hair reminded him of Mama in her prime. Two high-priced shrinks had told Ackerman that he collected redheaded women because he wanted to fuck his mother. What bullshit.
“If I had had your child,” Giselle said, “you’d be forced to keep me around, maybe even marry me.”
“Two abortions,” Ackerman said. “Getting rid of my babies. You could have kept one.”
“I was afraid,” she said.
“Afraid of what?”
He moved her hand toward his crotch, just like old times, a dozen years of signals and subtle codes. She shook her head, freed her wrist, and stood up.
“What is it?”
“I want a job change, Axel.”
“From what to what?”
“I want to go back to school. Get a degree.”
“In what field?”
“Architecture.”
“You already went to school, four different times, on my nickel.”
“You can hire someone to replace me. Helene would be perfect.”
“When is this?”
“When the sale is done.”
“You’re breaking my heart, woman.”
The phone rang. Giselle did not answer. He felt her pulling away, shielding herself. She stood there, arms crossed. The phone rang again, Ackerman picked up.
The caller was Daniel, Ackerman’s eldest son, calling from Boston, confirming his arrival Thursday morning, with his girlfriend, who craved sun.
“Bad news about Walt Findlay,” Daniel said.
“And Freddy Delaplane,” Ackerman said.
“I didn’t hear … what happened to Freddy?”
“Fell down the stairs in Santa Fe, so I was thinking maybe this might not be the best time—”
“Hey, Axel,” Daniel said. “Nothing is gonna stop us. Iveta is dying for sun. We don’t come, she’ll kill me.”
“Just so you’re warned,” Ackerman said.
“How’s the hotel deal coming?”
“It’s dragging. My goddamn banker wants to pull the plug.”
“What for?”
“Some bullshit about blaming himself for Findlay falling.”
“What’s he like, your banker?”
“Fussy,” Ackerman said. “Nervous, edgy about risk—a small timer.”
“Axel,” Daniel said, “you think everybody is small time. See you on Thursday.”
As she was leaving, Giselle reminded Ackerman about the event at noon on Friday. Ackerman remembered. Two senators, Gypsum and Fish, were holding a press conference. Gypsum for President, Fish as veep. Ackerman had tried to stop it. He owned the penthouse, but the Maddux people, loyal Republicans, still owned the hotel.
*****
Karla woke at five, touched her face, still smiling. She looked in the mirror, expecting to see the bait-girl mask. Her real face looked back at her, no mask. Today she was Karla. The kill jobs with Charity were fading. Think of money, not death.
She sat at the computer, checking her nest egg. She had half the money in brokerage accounts in Orange County. Four grand here, six grand there—low investments, don’t trigger the Feds. The other half she kept in the Vortex Bank, her safe deposit box. The first kill had pulled in $50k. Then sixty for the second, seventy for the third. With the money from kill number four, her total nut would be $360k. With the money from kill number five …. When would that be? What would that bring in? She closed the computer, and the numbers went away. Today, she needed to check her safe deposit box, make sure of her tally. Thinking about the box made her think of Vortex Bank. Thinking about the bank made her think of Mr. Cypher, and that gave her a little tingle.
She went over her schedule. Work from seven to noon. Then her trip to Vortex Bank, open the account, launch her assault on Mr. Cypher. She kept waiting for him to remember her, from that time in L.A. She wanted to punch through his mask, whisk him back to the past, start right there, when he helped her out.
She ate a muffin, sipped hot tea, and wrote in her mystery journal. Her cellphone buzzed. It was Ackerman. He wanted a massage, early afternoon, 1:30 or two. Karla bartered for six. She had plans. She wanted a block of time in the afternoon.
Wearing only her knee sox, Karla checked her physical assets in the mirror. Just four pounds extra showed up in the mid-section, belly and hips. The legs were still good—all that outdoor exercise, hiking and biking. The hands and forearms stayed good because of the massage work. Her cheeks looked a little fuller—why did a weight gain show up there?—and her thighs needed more time on the bike.
Karla chose her new red hip-huggers. They were skimpy, fit real close, and made her feel like a sexy underwear model. Did Mr. Cypher care about women’s underwear? Would she find out today?
Chapter 42
Before he went down to breakfast, Murdock phoned Helene. She was up, working on her book. She sounded sleepy, grouchy. Ackerman had phoned her at two a.m., told her about his nightmare of falling. He had not yet reached George Hawthorne, number five in the Crew.
Murdock told Helene about the Gerry Ramsay photos, about Mrs. Stanhope. Maybe she would remember something.
Helene told Murdock that Connie Fremont had asked about him. The silence hung in the air, making the distance longer—Sedona to Amarillo, a hundred thousand miles and growing.
In the hotel dining room, Murdock dug into a short stack, two eggs over-easy, and country ham. The maple syrup tasted real, not like chemical fakery. The library opened at ten. At 9:45, he zipped up his vest and headed into the wind. It swooped down from a cold blue sky, wind with an edge. At the first intersection, Ackerman’s driver rolled up. Murdock shook his head; he needed to walk. The driver trailed him to the library.
The library doors were closed. Murdock counted seven homeless guys—dusty clothes, battered hats and scraggy beards—waiting for the public bathroom. A sign said, WE OPEN AT TEN.
The driver opened the door of the Escalade. Murdock sat in the passenger seat. The driver talked about college football; his team was Texas A&M. Murdock nodded, the words drifted past. He had played football in three high schools. He quit after the first injury. If you’re going to get hurt, let it not be in a game.
At 10 a.m. sharp, the woman with the rose-colored glasses unlocked the door, and the homeless guys went in first, feet moving fast, heading for the men’s room. Murdock double-checked cellphone numbers with the driver. When he opened the car door, he felt the wind.
In the library, Murdock narrowed his yearbook search to the late 1970s, then the early 1980s—and there the guy was, Gerald Martin Ramsay, class of 1982, looking geeky, a chubby-cheeked teen. He’d been photographed in the regulation jacket and tie, hair too long for the face, nasty eyes, a smug smile. Gerald was assistant editor of the newspaper, The Golden Sandstorm, and a member of the accounting club
. He looked like nobody trying to be somebody, and now he was dead. For the price of three quarters, Murdock Xeroxed three photos of Gerry Ramsay.
At 10:02, an old woman came in. She was thin, gray, frail, and upright, with sharp blue eyes.
Like a schoolmarm from a black and white movie … before the days of the Internet.
She wore stylish glasses.
Her face had great cheekbones. Her lips wore pale lipstick. The woman’s name was Mrs. Stanhope. They sat at a table next to the business books. Murdock asked about Joe Wilson.
Mrs. Stanhope said, “Joseph Wilson, yes. I knew him quite well; we were neighbors. I knew his lovely wife, and the boy. Joseph was creative, but without a head for business. Joseph was kind; he befriended his employees. When he couldn’t make payroll, he went straight to his banker. You know how bankers are—they have this little club, men only, no females darkened their door—and soon after that came those people from New York, a firm called Arc-Angel Equity—who could forget a name like that? The company men got their photos on the front page, the angels who would rescue Wilson’s Fine Furniture. Well, that was a fine day, and time passed. Joseph purchased a new car, his wife remodeled the kitchen, shiny new appliances, and then one day there was another photo, not front page, but way back there in Business News, a story by one of our high-school students, a story that told the world about Joseph’s business going into Chapter Eleven, and that’s what caused the fight, you see, though most people referred to it as a scuffle.”
“What scuffle was that, Mrs. Stanhope?”
“I’m getting to that; there is order in my brain. Where was I?”
“Bankruptcy for the furniture factory,” Murdock said.
“Yes, well, Joseph had his money, you see—that’s one of the ironies of this whole ferment—because while he was wealthy, his employees went out on strike, fighting for their pension money. The Arc-Angel people had gone back to New York or wherever, except for the woman. I’m afraid I have her to blame for all of this. Even though she attended church, people said she was a seductress. She even hoodwinked Joseph’s boy …. Oh dear, I do ramble on.”
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 14