“I wish you had been there,” Murdock said. “There was this old lady … you could have gotten more info than I did.”
Helene turned onto the road that crossed the Interstate. When she spoke, she did not look at Murdock. “Axel offered me a job,” she said.
“Doing what? Firearms coach?”
“His aide-de-camp,” she said.
“What about the lovely Miss Roux?”
“Giselle’s going back to college, architecture. He offered me a million dollars.”
“You need to barter with him,” Murdock said.
“Barter about what?”
“About wages,” Murdock said. “Job expectations.”
“I’m confused,” Helene said. “A million dollars and you want more?”
“Do the math,” Murdock said. “You’re pulling down five grand every twenty-four hours. Multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five days, that would mushroom into a million eight—”
Helene’s voice was snappish. “I thought you would be happy for me.”
“Check your speedometer,” Steinbeck. “This old Humvee is jiggling like Jell-O.”
“It’s mine,” Helene said.
“What’s yours?”
“The Hummer. Axel gave it to me.”
“I hope his job offer included gas.”
*****
Karla was in the Executive Spa, smoothing the sheet on Ackerman’s massage table, still feeling the tingle from her afternoon with Mr. Cypher. Did she have a future with this guy?
Ackerman was in the bathroom; she heard the toilet flush. The door opened. He came out, his robe unbelted, sending a clear message—caveman ready for sex. When he grinned at her, she turned away.
“Don’t blame me,” he said. “It’s those little blue man pills ….”
“On the table,” she said. “Face down, on your best behavior, or I’m leaving.”
“We have a contract,” Ackerman said.
“Face down, sir.”
“Call me Axel,” he said.
He lay face down. He had been after Karla for months. He was her only customer, five hundred dollars a pop, great tips. She oiled his back. Started with his left lat. Ackerman’s spine was curved, forcing him to tilt to the right when he walked. For an old guy, he was in good shape.
Karla’s phone beeped, text message incoming. Ackerman told her not to answer. The beep distracted her; maybe it was Mr. Cypher. Her fingers located a knot in the fascia, and she focused on making it go away. The phone beeped again. Karla wiped oil from one hand. The message was a text from Charity Plum.
“Got yr $$$. Job 5 happens 2-nite, the Xanadu, downtown Sedona, 9 PM, 100K. C ya.”
Ackerman raised up on one elbow. “What is it?”
“Gotta go, sorry.”
“I paid you in advance,” Ackerman said. “Masseuse on call. Therefore ….”
Karla wasn’t listening. She felt hot, then clammy. Her stomach lurched. She ran to the bathroom, no time, sank to her knees. The vomit splashed yellow green and sour.
She was dizzy, her face burning. She wet a wash cloth, held it on her forehead. Returned to the spa, where Ackerman sat on the massage table. Thin shoulders, scrawny neck, a towel concealing his erection. At this moment, she hated all men.
“I apologize,” he said.
“I gotta go,” she said. “I feel like shit.”
“We have a contract,” he said.
“You smarmy old man!” she said.
As she ran out, she heard Ackerman yelling.
*****
Helene marched into Sedona Landing. She was furious, and she wanted Murdock to know it. She walked fast, almost at a trot. He did not choose to keep up, so she left him behind. Take that, mister hotshot detective. She blew through the front entrance and saw Karla Kurtz, her favorite writer from the mystery workshop, leaning over the reception desk talking to Raul, the concierge.
Karla had on white shorts. She was barefoot, her black hair tied in a ponytail, running shoes in one hand, a red rucksack over her shoulder. She looked distraught. When she turned to stare at Helene, Karla’s eyes seemed out of focus. Her face was puffy; she had been crying. When she went by, Helene said hello and Karla said, “Oh, hi, gotta run.” Murdock came through the doors. Karla dodged, cutting around him, her dark legs glimmering.
Helene called out: “See you tomorrow … looking forward to the next installment!” But Karla was already out the door, into the night, moving fast.
“That’s Karla, she’s one of my writers—and doing some good work, on these two gals who team up like …” she paused.
“Good legs,” Murdock said. “Moves like a jock. What’s she writing … murder on a space ship headed for—?”
“Is that all you think about?” Helene said. “Tits and ass?”
“I said legs,” Murdock said. “Let’s find Ackerman, see what he remembers about Amarillo.”
“You find him,” Helene said. “I need a drink.”
Chapter 49
It was Thursday Evening and Axel Ackerman sat at his table in the Bell Rock Bistro answering questions from Murdock and Helene. Ackerman’s shoulder ached. And his lower back, and his right knee. He had counted on the massage to keep him loose. Then came the phone call, and Karla had split, leaving him alone. Where the hell was she going?
Gripping the file folder, Ackerman confronted the evidence from Amarillo, from three decades ago. Images flickered across his memory, like an old sepia movie. He felt trapped.
He remembered those early years as exciting, make or break, moving fast, smell of money, smell of sex, fear of failure. He remembered having too many irons in the fire, too many projects, too many contractors, everyone needed teaching, coaching, mentoring. He remembered travel as a series of blurs—job to job, new faces, new forces. If he drove, he would barrel along, way over the speed limit, dusty towns, city fathers on the make, business owners who did not comprehend the power of Darwin, the survival of the fittest, buy low, sell high. He did not remember much about Amarillo, a dot on a map in the Texas Panhandle.
He looked at the evidence and remembered Penny Diamond and felt doom.
The first piece of evidence was a grainy Amarillo newspaper photo below the headline that said: NEW YORK CAPITAL INFUSION RESCUES LOCAL BUSINESS. The photo showed the five men of his old Crew—Tyler, Coolidge, Hawthorne, Findlay, and Delaplane. There was no photo of Penny Diamond.
As if she could read his mind, Helene Steinbeck said: “Anyone missing, Mr. A?”
“Me,” he said.
“Anyone else?”
“Miss Penny Diamond.”
“Was she part of the team?”
“The Crew didn’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She was too smart, made them feel dumb. They got back at her by keeping her out of the picture.”
“What did you think?”
“They were investors, had money in the pool. She did not invest; she took no risks.”
“Did you like her?”
“I hired her, and the money was good.”
“Did you have a personal relationship?”
“Jesus Christ, Steinbeck.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“We fooled around,” Ackerman said. “She made the first move. She was so beautiful—they all are, at that age, like God’s own angels.”
“But you couldn’t get your Crew to let her into the picture?”
“They were there, on the ground,” Ackerman said.
“Five against one,” Helene said.
The second piece of evidence was a photo from a high school yearbook. A shifty-eyed kid with a smug look, eyes you would never trust. The name under the photo was Gerald R. Ramsay.
“What’s this?”
“Gerry Ramsay interviewed you for the school paper.”
“It’s coming back,” Ackerman said. “Ramsay was a rat-faced little shit. He tried to wangle a summer job.”
“What did you say?”
�
�I explained my process, contractors only. I told him to call the office in New York.”
“So Mrs. Ramsay was right … about the job thing, Gerry traveling to New York, where you gave him the brush-off.”
“I remember the interview,” Ackerman said. “I remember no contact in New York. My so-called brush-off is pure bullshit. There is no way a sane man, grown-up man would worry about this after thirty years.”
The third piece of evidence was a Xerox copy of a microfiched newspaper article with a headline that Ackerman had seen in other small-town papers—LOCAL BUSINESS TAKES SLIPPERY SLOPE INTO CHAPTER ELEVEN. Not a big deal. If you were a businessman, bankruptcy was a cog in the great wheel of profit and loss, the great cycle of economics. The sun coming up, the sun going down. If you were soft, you needed someone to blame. Blame the universe, blame Arc-Angel Equity, blame Ackerman.
He didn’t care, because he understood the cycle. He lived by its laws, surrendered to its inevitability, made no move to resist. He gave Murdock a look, then he swung over to Helene Steinbeck. She blamed him—he saw it in her eyes.
The byline on the article identified the author, Gerry Ramsay, editor of the high school paper, the AHS Sandstorm. The writing was amateurish, snide, overdone. The photo of Wilson’s Fine Furniture sucked Ackerman into the past. It was like watching an old newsreel in a theater that smelled of sweat, popcorn, and perfume. The photo showed Joseph Wilson and a teenage boy.
Father and son were standing in front of Wilson’s Fine Furniture, facing a gaggle of employees holding protest signs. In one hand, Wilson held a sack. With the other hand, he offered cash money to his employees. They formed in a half-circle, staring at Wilson. Only a fool gave money away.
The fourth piece of evidence was a death notice from the same newspaper, Amarillo Globe-News. Joseph Wilson had died from falling, on Christmas Eve. An autopsy found alcohol in his blood.
Ackerman closed the folder. He glanced at Helene, then at Murdock, then he looked away, through the window. The patio was dark; the sun was down. That was a law of nature, sun-up, day, sundown, night. If you were a butterfly, you would be dead when the sun went down.
Joseph Wilson had been a butterfly.
Ackerman pushed out of his chair. His legs felt wobbly; he was no butterfly. He stood at the window, looking out. Who wanted him dead? Who wanted to torpedo this deal? There was a fist in his chest, pounding his ribcage. He saw a graveyard, a coffin, a handful of mourners. He stood at the grave’s edge, looking down. The corpse had his face, his nose, his bald head. Papa, he said, what do I do?
Ackerman needed a drink. He needed to steady himself. Where was the waitress? Who was trying to kill him? He sat down in his chair. The room whirled around him. Maybe the nut-cases of Sedona were right about the power of the vortex.
“Okay,” Ackerman said. “You’re the sleuths. What’s next?”
“Any contact with Hawthorne?” Murdock said.
“We spoke on the phone Sunday,” Ackerman said. “He was in Buffalo, wrapping up a project. He had a date, no time to talk.”
“How old is Hawthorne?”
“He’s the youngest,” Ackerman said, “and the prettiest. Women go crazy over his hair. It’s like observing a movie-star in his favorite role.”
“We also need to alert your son and his lady friend,” Helene said.
“Be my guest,” Ackerman said.
Daniel stood in the doorway, holding hands with Iveta Macek.
Chapter 50
Murdock watched Daniel Ackerman take the steps down into the Bell Rock Bistro. He wore sandals with no socks, baggy Bermudas, a Waikiki shirt crazy with fronds. The woman with him was Iveta Macek, tall and blonde, a tough mouth, makeup over her pockmarks. Daniel was in his fifties, Macek edging toward thirty. A ring glinted on her engagement finger.
Ackerman’s son had a businessman’s handshake—honest, solid, perfect timing, just the right pressure. A handshake that said, This is a good man, you can do business, no worries. Iveta Macek was starving. She ordered a three-egg omelet with salmon, and a proper white wine. Daniel checked out the food bar and came back with a Sedona Burger, a huge patty, onion rings, fries in a hot sack, and a glass of the local red wine. Macek chatted with Helene. Between bites, Daniel asked Murdock if there was progress.
“Your dad’s still alive,” Murdock said. “I’d call that progress.”
“He told me he’s not buying your two female killer theory.”
“It’s all we’ve got,” Murdock said.
“So it’s just a theory, right?”
“All we’ve got.”
“This blood-bath on Fox-something, did these two assumed female killers perpetrate that?”
“Foxglove Lane was someone else.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Killers have styles,” Murdock said. “Like signatures.”
“What’s their style then—knives? Poison darts? Strangulation à la garrote?”
“Death by falling,” Murdock said.
“Isn’t that how Will Tyler died … by taking a fall?”
“You knew Tyler?” Murdock said.
“My little Fire Island bungalow is near his,” Daniel said. “We hoisted some brewskis at the Blue Point in Patchogue. I was shocked when I heard.”
“Did you know anyone else on your dad’s Crew?”
“I did business with Freddy Delaplane a while back. I saw Walter through the years, but not Coolidge.”
“Did you ever lay eyes on Penny Diamond?” Murdock said.
“Why would you ask that?”
“The small world of high finance,” Murdock said. “She’s about your age.”
“I was older,” Daniel said.
“Same generation,” Murdock said.
*****
Daniel took a bite of burger. He had a wide mouth and thick lips. He had his father’s nose and eyes, but the bulky build came from his mother. Daniel was a businessman, maybe a shark in the boardroom. Before he answered, he swallowed his mouthful, took a slug of wine, and shook black pepper on the french fries. He offered the sack to Murdock. The guy made him nervous, the way he looked at you.
“We met in a class,” he said. “Statistics. I was the TA.”
“What school?”
“Wharton,” Daniel said. “Miss Diamond was young and brilliant. She could inhale the numbers from a spread sheet. Back then we had Lotus 1-2-3. The Excel spreadsheet was a whisper on the wind. We had Buddha—there was this joke about assuming the Lotus position when you wanted answers. Then along came Quattro, which was an advance on the 1-2-3 of Lotus. Then there was—”
“What did she look like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was she pretty?” Murdock said. “Was she sexy? Did she date her professors? Did she date you?”
“Lunches, mostly,” Daniel said. “Nothing serious. She wasn’t really wife-material, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not high society?” Murdock said.
“It wasn’t like that,” Daniel said.
“What was it like?”
“Miss Diamond was ultra small-town. Her father was a stump preacher down south. She needed help with statistics; that was my forte.”
“Do you have photo of her?” Murdock said.
“I told you; it wasn’t like that.”
“Here’s a scenario,” Murdock said. “What if Ackerman’s Crew shut her out? What if she got pissed? What if she’s still pissed after thirty years? What if she’s losing her looks? What if she gets help from a second female?”
“Is this what you people refer to as sleuthing?”
“Watch your step,” Murdock said. “Your fiancée too.”
“Are you saying we might be in danger?”
“Don’t talk to strangers,” Murdock said.
“Have you seen our server?” Daniel said. “This is a serious red. I need a refill.”
Maybe it was the burger, maybe the fries. Daniel had gas. He farted, left the table. H
e burped. Where was the men’s room? He felt Iveta’s eyes tracking him. She was seated between Axel and the Steinbeck woman. He already knew from Axel that Steinbeck was half Jewish. Daniel could tell from the old man’s body language, the nose, the cant of his head, the hunter’s gleaming eye, that sex with Steinbeck was on the agenda.
Thinking of sex made Daniel think of Penny Diamond, his first sight of her in the class on statistics. One look at her sinuous shape and his heart stood still. He took Penny Diamond for a Coke, then a drink, then lunch, then a candle-lit dinner. She said she would “lie with him in sin” if he helped her get the A in statistics. Her down-home argot, laced with Bible-talk, was pure charm. She got the A. She took Daniel to bed, he proposed, and she said she’d been praying for this moment. Yes-yes-yes, she would be his wife. He took her to meet Axel.
Axel gave her a contract, $20,000 for the summer—that was like $50K today—and shipped her to the Midwest, a church girl with a Southern accent. Penny sent picture postcards, real busy, hon, wish you were here. Daniel spent his summer playing the market, making serious money in puts and calls. He remembered the joy when he clocked his first hundred grand. Axel was worth ten million, on the road to becoming a bona fide billionaire. Daniel would devote his life to catching up.
In August, a postcard from Penny: “I am returning your ring.”
In September, some crazy person burglarized the offices of Arc-Angel Equity. Axel blamed Penny Diamond. Daniel asked, “Something happen in the boonies?”
“The bitch burgled my office,” Axel said. “The police won’t take my word. I put the Crew on it.”
So why had Daniel held back? Why hadn’t he shared that precious Penny Diamond memory with Murdock? He’d been on the verge, but Daniel didn’t trust Murdock. His warning about not talking to strangers was out of line. Daniel could buy and sell guys like Murdock. And besides, Daniel’s investment brain was busy with the Sedona Landing thing. After so many years of being shut out, Daniel was gonna be partners with his dad.
Iveta met Daniel coming out of the men’s room and they strolled around the grounds of Sedona Landing. Guys on the tennis court ogled Iveta. Daniel didn’t mind; she was his lady. She loved it here, the warmth, the sun, the crisp air.
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