Daniel switched the subject to Penny Diamond, Murdock’s theory. Axel waved his hand. Goddamn detectives,” he said. “They always have to have a theory.”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
“Is Penny Diamond capable of killing?”
“That young woman was one big surprise,” Axel said. “You never were ready for what she did. Very inventive.”
“How long since you heard from her?”
“Thirty years.”
“You ever wonder what she looks like?”
“I like to keep the memory,” Axel said, “when she was a knockout.”
“She told me you proposed,” Daniel said.
“A proposal,” Axel said. “That’s what they all want.”
“So did you?”
“Tell you what,” Axel said, “let’s have Christmas in Paris. Lottie’s there, and you can check with Arthur—see if he can wiggle loose from his boys in Miami. Plenty of room in the hotel. Bring your woman. She looks solid, real spunk. You propose yet?”
“Last weekend. She said yes.”
“Arthur’s flying in tomorrow,” Axel said. “He’s your brother, how long since you boys spoke, anyway?”
“Arthur is my half-brother,” Daniel said.
“You were always a hair-splitter,” Ackerman said, “even as a kid. What the fuck is that?”
“Blueprints,” Daniel said. “If I’m dropping ten mil, I want to know what’s the product here.”
They finished the blueprints. Daniel liked what he saw; he liked being partners with Dad. Bruno asked if they wanted a drink. Ackerman ordered tea, Daniel asked for a Mexican beer. The TV in the Penthouse was on mute. Something happening on the screen—police vehicles, uniforms, a red and white ambulance, EMTs wheeling an empty gurney. A female reporter in a leather jacket was interviewing a witness.
Daniel punched the remote, and the sound came on.
The reporter’s voice was excited, tense, on the edge of a scream.
She was talking about a jumper.
She made a half-turn, waved at the balcony.
“Sedona Xanadu,” Axel said.
“That’s the hotel I would buy,” Daniel said.
“What the hell’s going on?”
The camera panned to yellow crime-scene ribbons, then to a clutch of uniforms in a parking lot. One of the men wore a suit, a badge flickering from his lapel. Axel identified him as Steve Slattery, Sedona Police. He talked; the officers took notes. Daniel remembered seeing Slattery earlier, in the lobby at Sedona Landing. Slattery gestured at the building. The uniforms nodded, walked away.
The screen shifted back to the reporter in the leather jacket. She was talking to a female deputy—Daniel could tell from the jacket, the shield, the Stetson hat, the pressed uniform trousers. Axel identified her as Connie Fremont, Coconino Sheriff. Axel lectured Daniel on the dangers of split jurisdiction, turf. The cops sliced up the case—City, County, State, Federals. Too many chiefs, not enough Indians. Daniel was impressed; his father had always known stuff.
The screen became a wobbly sky view, shot from a helicopter. A man’s voice, rising over the chop-chop of whirling blades: “This is the balcony where the deceased went over. There is no official report to confirm or deny the manner of death.”
Daniel felt his stomach clutch. Axel stood up, walked to the TV, stood there staring at the screen. Ackerman said, “It can’t be.”
“Can’t be what?”
“Can’t be Georgie Hawthorne. I just talked to him.”
Two people came out onto the balcony. One was Slattery, the other was Murdock, Daniel’s dinner companion. Slattery waved for the helicopter to go away. A man had jumped to his death. Murdock still looked relaxed.
Chapter 54
Murdock stood next to Slattery, buffeted by the wind from the whirling blades. The copter logo said Phoenix TV. How had they gotten here so fast?
Slattery waved his arms. “Fuck off!” he yelled. “This is my goddamn crime scene!”
They were close enough to see the pilot, wearing gloves and goggles. The machine banked, swooped away, a shot from a cop movie. Slattery moved to the balcony, looked over. From here, a moneyed guest at Sedona Xanadu could see halfway to Mexico. Eleven o’clock, a cold wind swirling.
Murdock took off his gloves. The metal railing was cold, with rough edges. The wind chilled his face. He gripped the railing, straightened his arms, boosted himself up, and looked down.
Down below, EMTs in blue wheeled the corpse away, a body bag on a gurney. The rocks where the guy had landed were too jagged for a chalk outline. A CSI agent sprayed white paint, marking the spot.
Murdock lowered himself, showed his hands to Slattery. Red spots, a tiny drop of blood from a rough place on the metal railing.
“You think he was pushed?”
“Check his hands,” Murdock said. “He could have been assisted over.”
“By two beefy females?”
“In the movies,” Murdock said, “female killers are ever beautiful and seductive.”
“We’re at the scene,” Slattery said. “Gathering data, playing by the rules. And you’re hanging onto your dynamic Double-Broad Killer theory?”
“The killer has a plan,” Murdock said. “And a timetable.”
“By killer you mean the mysterious Mr. X?”
“It’s like an opera,” Murdock said. “Three acts and a climax.”
“Oh sure,” Slattery said. “And where are we now? Which fucking act?”
“I’m freezing,” Murdock said. “Maybe there’s coffee inside.”
“Maybe they got donuts,” Slattery said. “I skipped dinner.”
Murdock was shivering. He pulled on his gloves as they walked off the balcony, followed by the wind. The suite had four rooms. A living room, a bedroom, a sumptuous bathroom, an office with a computer. All four rooms had lots of chrome and black marble—the opposite of Sedona Landing, which radiated a sense of history. Murdock saw two CSI people. Where was Olivera?
Slattery, man in charge, led the way across the living room floor and through the doorway, into the carpeted corridor. The suite was 717. The coffee cart, courtesy of the hotel, was at the end of the hall. Three burnished urns, three choices—French Roast, House Blend, Sumatra. Slattery chose House Blend, Murdock Sumatra. The donuts were flaky and warm. Slattery grabbed three. Murdock tried a bite. Too much grease, too much sugar.
Olivia Olivera exited the elevator, talking on her cellphone. They waited while she got coffee. For her first report, Olivera used the battered black notebook, pocket-sized, spiral bound. Her blue jumpsuit had a stain on the left sleeve. Her eyes looked weary.
“Our vic was helped over,” she said, “helped by a strong guy. Or, if you ascribe to the current Murdock Murder Theory, two hefty females. They cleaned up before they left. No prints, no threads, no telltale pubic hairs. The bed was made. The vic’s name is George P. Hawthorne, Florida driver’s license, got an address in Boca Raton. The cops there are checking.”
Murdock said, “Was George P. wearing pajamas?”
“Sport coat and slacks,” Olivera said. “Before his demise, he used a razor with a blade. There’s a Gillette Atra on the bathroom shelf, and a pricey shaving brush.”
“Luggage?” Slattery said.
“Two bags, leather, made by J.W. Hulme—also, he had a ticket to Viet Nam, day after tomorrow.”
Slattery said, “Fleshpots of Viet Nam, ripe with teeny-bopper whores?”
“Also on the list,” Olivera said, “a good supply of condoms.”
“Where did he hit when he fell?” Murdock said.
“On the rocks.”
“Ouch,” Murdock said. “What part of his body hit first?”
“The head,” Olivera said. “The right shoulder looks like a bag of bones.”
“Like Findlay,” Murdock said.
Slattery said, “You got a theory about how he got boosted over?”
“Two p
erson lift is my guess,” Olivera said. “First the arms, lift him up, then one holds him steady. The other perp grabs the ankles—more leverage that way—and over he goes.”
“So two perps,” Slattery said. “They work together … like team coordination?”
“Yeah.”
“What was his weight?” Murdock said. “Any idea how tall?”
“Height, maybe six feet. Weight, maybe one ninety-five.”
“He was in shape?”
“For a guy his age.”
“Mid-sixties?” Murdock said.
“You should have stayed a cop,” Olivera said.
“Civilians have dinner,” Murdock said. “Cops with major responsibilities gobble donuts at crime scenes.”
“Why I get the big bucks,” Slattery said. “What about maid service?”
“Not scheduled until ten,” Olivera said. “That’s when they turn down the sheets, plant a little chocolate kiss on the pillow.”
“What’s your read, Olivia?”
“I hate to admit it—maybe because I’m a girl, maybe because it’s coming from the private sector of overpaid investigative professionals—but I’m starting to like Murdock’s two-female killer theory.”
Chapter 55
Charity Plum, feeling forlorn, watched the men watching Karla leave the bar—seven guys tracking Karla’s ass, exchanging grins and knowing nods. Charity, left alone at the table, felt cold, lonely, destitute. And very jealous.
Through the window, she followed Karla striding, a knife through the parked cars.
Saw the headlights come on, bright shafts reaming the deep November dark.
What if she followed Karla home?
What if she dropped to her knees and begged?
Why did she have to fall in love with a bitch?
Charity looked around at the people talking at nearby tables. The ratio in the Half-Moon Bar was seven to one, men to women, and only one guy in the place had looked at Charity. Not like the old days, when she could walk into a room, feel the heat, good days when the eyes ate her up.
Her cellphone rang. It was Joey. He wanted a report.
“It was quick,” she said. “Why are you calling, really?”
“There might be something else,” he said.
“You said we were done. You promised.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“What is this … an invitation?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Courtyard Marriott, in Flagstaff.”
“Drive safe,” he said. “There is snow on the way.”
“If there’s another job,” Charity said, “I need a hundred grand. I gotta brief my partner … she’s getting skitzy.”
“Wait for my signal,” Joey said.
Charity paid the bar bill. She used cash, no credit cards on the job.
The Honda was cold. She took 179, the closest onramp to the interstate.
Halfway to Flagstaff, the anger started. Life was shit, men were bastards, and she was a victim. Headlights zoomed at her. Today was Thursday. Tomorrow, she’d pack a couple bags. Her flight to the Caymans left at 7 p.m. A night of sleep and being pampered, then on to Saturday at noon. She had a date at the Ritz-Carlton with Harrison Strong—sixty, chubby, rich, a jolly man with a sweet smile. His wife had just died, and he was looking for a replacer. Maybe Charity wanted it too much. If she married money, that would cushion the fists of the world. Fists like hammer blows.
The road curved; the Honda whined. Snowflakes snapped her windshield. Georgie Hawthorne had called her Diamond. That was her real name. Now that she had money, maybe she could get it back. Georgie was dead. The Crew was dead. Payback for ruining her life. Men always tried that, ruining your life. Your only friends were women. Like Mrs. Annabelle Trice, back in Charleston.
She remembered when she was fourteen, when she was grouting the shower wall for Mrs. Annabelle Tryce, a widow supported by her men friends. Mrs. Tryce had groomed Penny for the real world.
“A lady always dresses well,” said Mrs. Tryce.
“Always expects a gift. If no gift is forthcoming, give him the deep freeze.”
“If you fall in love, don’t let the bastard know it.”
“Keep half your money in cash.”
“Sex is real. Men need it for their sense of worth.”
“When you marry, marry for money, not love.”
“Love is fragile, like a plucked rose.”
“With money, you have freedom.”
At fifteen, in her other life before Ackerman, Penny had all As in math, English, Latin, and gym. She had a B in biology. She backed the teacher, Mr. Sweatman, into a closet, put her knee between his legs, and got him off. “How about a little old A-Minus?” she said.
Penny graduated at seventeen with honors and a scholarship to State. She aced her classes, lay with her first prof, trading fornication for knowledge, then wangled early admission to Wharton, where she met Daniel Ackerman, the TA who got her through statistics. Daniel was older, going for his doctorate.
She was lonely and they dated. She drank martinis—they were always her downfall—and then she met Axel Ackerman. He had money, a wily brain, and he understood a woman’s need for foreplay. Axel got her hot, put her under contract, sent her on the road to Kansas, Oklahoma. “Find me a sick business,” he said. “Give me a call.”
The target town was Amarillo, and the sick business was Wilson’s Fine Furniture, jumble of new construction and Quonset huts. The owner was an artist-artisan. He had created a sweet product line, but the business was bleeding red ink.
The owner knew nothing because the son was cooking the books. His name was Joey, and he turned the red ink to black.
Protecting his father from the truth.
Joseph Wilson made payroll, but he could not make a balloon payment to the bank.
Penny phoned New York. She was lonely, they need you, I need you. Ackerman sent the Wrecking Crew— five predatory MBAs in suits and attaché cases—Tyler, Coolidge, Hardwick, Findlay, and Delaplane.
They were the Crew. They had the teamwork. They gave her flowers, candy, perfume, a bottle of British gin, promises, lies. When she refused to lie with them, they shut her out. She was saving herself for Ackerman. But he was in New York and Penny was in Texas, and on a lonely Saturday she found Joey sacking groceries at Furr Food—his real job, he called it.
His folks were in Childress, visiting relatives.
Penny cooked Joey’s dinner, gave him his first taste of martini. They kissed. She felt him up. Joey had the face of an angel. He sang in the church choir. He was hung like a Brahman bull. She took him to bed out of loneliness.
Penny missed her period. She went to the hospital to be tested. She telephoned Axel. “It’s your kid,” she said. “You gotta make good.”
Ackerman had said “Okay, no problem. Is September a good month for weddings?”
She was still in Amarillo when Freddy Delaplane told her that Ackerman had just married a society woman. There it was in the newspaper: FINANCIER WEDS SOCIALITE.
In her New York apartment, Penny had a baseball bat, a relic from her girlhood.
She broke the windows in the offices of Arc-Angel Equity.
She took money from the safe.
She found incriminating documents on the Wrecking Crew.
She made copies, mailed them to the papers.
The Crew tracked her. They invaded her town, interrogated her folks, her friends. Penny went to Mexico, changed her name, slept with a consular guy to get a fake passport. Her new name was Charity Plum, a churchy girl.
The road north seemed blacker. No clouds, headlights swallowed by the wild dark sky. Her GPS said she was going due north, but her brain said she was on the road to Hell. She rounded a long curve, saw the lights of Flagstaff. Saw the first signs for motels. ROAD-WEARY? THEN SLEEP WITH US. She followed the glaring signs to Luxury Suites. She did not take a room at the Marriott. With Joey—the new version with the new face, the spiffy war
drobe—you could never be too careful.
The room was ugly. The bed had a weird death smell. Charity did not care. The bar had three martini bottles. There was ice down the hall. She was tired. She said goodbye to Charity Plum.
As Penny Diamond, she drank herself to sleep.
*****
Safe in her condo, Karla brushed her teeth, gargled, and rinsed her mouth three times. She could still feel the hesitation, still hear the order from Charity, “Now, bitch.” She could still see the man going over, ten seconds to touchdown. Still see the mouth open, about to ask the final question.
Karla needed warmth, a hot male body next to hers, a body that smelled good. She phoned Mr. Cypher at home. His voice was slurry, a bedroom voice. She asked to come over, offered to bring her Mama’s chili. There was a pause on her phone. Mr. Cypher went away, then he came back with an invitation to breakfast at Sedona Landing, the Bell Rock Bistro at eight. Karla said yes.
She was disappointed, shut out, a door closing in her face. Mr. Cypher was a loner, but tonight he was not alone. Who was he with? Fuck him. She would stand him up, not keep their breakfast date. She ended the call, turned on the TV, a dead man falling. She hit the button. There was a little bong, and the screen faded.
On the dead, dark screen, Karla saw Charity letting go of George Hawthorne, banker number five, reaching for Charity, his mouth working, calling her Diamond.
Day Five
Chapter 56
The phone woke Daniel. The bedside clock said 4:50.
He was dreaming about Penny Diamond, nineteen years old, that macro-econ class, the tight skirts, flashing her legs. He remembered that she loved martinis. She never got drunk.
The caller identified himself as Lieutenant Steve Slattery, Sedona Police.
He apologized for calling so late, but he needed some information from Daniel about the jumper. Could Daniel meet him on the tennis courts?
“Now?” Daniel said. “It’s four in the morning. I’m suffering from jet lag.”
“You knew this guy, right? You knew Hawthorne?”
“Not well,” Daniel said.
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