“We’ve got a lead,” the voice said. “It concerns your dad—the Arab-Jew rivalry thing. Won’t take but a couple minutes.”
“Can’t we meet in the lobby? It’s freezing out there.”
“Talking out of school here, but I got this jurisdictional thing—it’s a turf war that destroys careers in law enforcement—so I’d rather not be caught talking to you, because of your dad’s involvement. You catch my drift?”
“What involvement?” Daniel said.
“That’s why I wanted to see you, give you a heads-up. You can be my liaison with the old man.”
“Ten minutes,” Daniel said.
Daniel pulled on sweat pants, a hoodie. He stepped into his sandals, Mephistos. Fifty years old and already having trouble with his feet. Being able to help Axel, that was a big deal. Axel had never needed help.
Daniel yawned in the elevator. Yawned again on his way to the door that led outside.
He needed coffee, Arizona was keeping him awake.
It was cold outside, the desert at night.
A sign with an arrow, to the tennis courts.
He took the curved pathway. The tennis courts were empty, and the security lights cast sharp shadows.
When he was halfway to the courts, the cop walked out of shadow, into the light. He waved at Daniel.
Daniel called out, “Is that you?”
Daniel heard footsteps behind him, someone running.
He turned to see two figures taking up the walkway, coming at him fast.
No way they could be Murdock’s two female killers. They moved like young guys.
He heard hard breathing. They were right behind him, not slowing down. He tried stepping out of the way. His foot left the paved pathway, and he felt the stab of pain in his ankle. He lost his balance. The two figures were on him, gripping his arms. He smelled tobacco, booze, strong Mexican chilis. A voice said, “Gringo, you are fucking muerte.” The voice was male. So much for Murdock’s theory of two female killers.
Daniel was falling. The world tilted, turned sideways. He grabbed a sleeve, heard a tearing sound. A hand gave him a shove. Where was that fucking cop, Slattery? He heard himself cry out. He felt stupid for coming out here. A pain roared through his head. The lights went out.
Chapter 57
Karla’s bike ride to Sedona Landing was wonderful. Brisk morning, images of sex with Mr. Cypher, deep deep feelings. Was it that easy to fall in love? Maybe she should start her new life by cancelling her massage with Ackerman. She had money now. Goodbye barista, goodbye massage oil, goodbye groping hands.
Mr. Cypher waited for her at a table in the Bell Rock Bistro, across the room from Helene Steinbeck, her teacher, and the guy named Murdock. Miss Steinbeck waved, and Karla waved back.
Mr. Cypher held Karla’s chair. She wanted to ask who he was with last night when she called. Karla hated feeling jealous; it threw her off-balance.
Mr. Cypher ordered an omelet. Karla said, “Make that two.” The coffee here was two steps down from Red Rock Coffee. He asked her about her mystery story, what happens next, how does the story end?
Mr. Cypher’s questions gave her the shivers. They felt invasive, like they had little barbs attached. She told him she didn’t know where the story was going. She was one of those writers who let the characters go. She followed behind, writing stuff down.
Mr. Cypher checked his watch, stood up, shook her hand, and asked her to lunch. Karla asked what time. He said twelve, on the button. She could do lunch at 1:30; she had a massage at noon. No problem, Mr. Cypher said. Find me at the bank when you’re free.
At the top of the entry staircase, Mr. Cypher stopped. He was holding his smartphone with both hands. Karla saw his fingers moving.
Who was Mr. Cypher texting?
*****
Penny had breakfast at the hotel coffee shop in Flagstaff. Her bags were packed. She had her ticket to the Caymans. Her Joey jobs were over. Tonight, she aimed to keep her hot date with a rich man. He was chubby, he was old, but she needed her name in his last will and testament.
Her smartphone bonged—message from Joey. “Red alert. Your compatriot in arms is enrolled in a writing workshop, exposing your recent exploits. The hotel construction boss needs a tile setter who works weekends. Get back to town. Ask at the desk for Elroy Pooler, builder.”
The message was incomplete—no time, no place. He was making her wait for details. Joey loved keeping her hanging. What was Karla thinking, writing about Penny’s life? Had she gone crazy?
Bleak anger drove Penny to Value Village. Anger made her efficient as she bought tools, overalls, boots. She had done tile setting for two years, working for a guy named Jeremiah from church, a guy who wanted to lie with her, get her with child.
Penny was on the interstate, approaching the 179 turnoff to Oak Creek Village when her phone beeped. Text from Joey: “Penthouse Spa. Sedona Landing. Noon. Weapons at the desk, under the name C. Plummer. Combination 01013.”
*****
Ackerman sat beside Daniel’s bed, Room 719, at the CRMC, watching his son breathe, chest rising, chest falling. Daniel was in a coma. He was bruised, some minor cuts. They were waiting for him to wake up. Iveta Macek sat next to Ackerman, not talking, no color in her face. He checked his watch, 10:30; he needed to be on the court, stroking the ball. He needed a massage. He phoned Karla Kurtz, no answer. Left a message: “If you’ve recovered your composure, how about finishing yesterday’s massage?”
The door opened and Slattery entered.
Ackerman grabbed Slattery’s arm, led him outside. Ackerman wanted to talk about the phone call. Slattery wanted to talk about George Hawthorne. Ackerman was pissed and frightened. Slattery was weary; his face sagged. They stopped bickering when Iveta came out, blotting the tears with a tissue.
Slattery went to check with Danny’s docs. Iveta led Ackerman outside into the parking lot, the wind. She had a Massachusetts license; Ackerman let her drive. They drove back to the hotel in a new Prius. It was winter in Arizona. There was sun. The landscape was bleak. They passed the entrance to the Gypsum Ranch. A bunch of cars were at the big house. Not pickups, but shiny sedans and SUVs. Ackerman knew Gypsum, from working on committees. If he wanted to be president, why had he partnered with Fatso Fish?
Chapter 58
Helene sat in the Yavapai Room, re-building her mind-map. She added Hawthorne’s name, the last member of Ackerman’s Crew, death by falling. She added Daniel, then the initials CRMC. She wrote “Slattery Impersonator?” boxed it, then ran an arrow headed for the center, and stopped. She was getting nowhere.
She printed the letters TFK, shorthand for Murdock’s Two Female Killer theory, enclosed the letters in an ellipse, and ran an arrow to the center. Using her red pen, Helene connected the TFKs to Sedona Landing, then Ackerman, then Vortex Bank.
Nothing made sense. She needed Murdock’s brain. Maybe later. Karla Kurtz entered the room, took a seat next to Helene. Her face looked older, her eyes were bleak. Helene slid the mind-map out of sight.
“Are you all right?”
“Having trouble sleeping,” Karla said. “Could we talk later?”
“Of course. What time?”
“I’ve got a massage at noon, in Mr. A’s Spa. How about after that?”
“We could do lunch,” Helene said.
“I’d like that,” Karla said.
The writing for Friday was creating the Killing Scene. Helene gave them ten minutes to do a Scene Profile: Time, place, furniture if inside, bushes if outside. Lighting, temperature, wardrobe, objects (murder weapon), characters, POV (killer or victim), action, dialogue, motive, Intruder, climax. Then she tossed out a writing prompt: My latest kill takes place in….
While they wrote, Helene started a fresh mind-map, a clean sheet of paper. A big circle for the past, a big rectangle for the present. She was filling in the past when the buzzer sounded, bringing her back to the Yavapai Room. Time for three readers. Karla read last:
My latest k
ill takes place in Pebble Beach … a name on a list, a target. The list comes from the past, along with hit money. If I do this job, I can retire, no more waitressing, no more hustling fat convention-goers. The Target on the list hangs out in Pebble Beach, a gated community. Me and Sharleen pose as house cleaners. Our van says Pebble [email protected]. Sharleen wears short shorts and a tight T-shirt. I watch her from the closet. The bedroom has a balcony. Down below, maybe twenty feet, there are hard, gray rocks. Target One comes out of the shower wearing a towel. He’s got white hair and a deep, rich-man tan. He grins at Sharleen. Like all men, he’s dying to stick Sharleen. He drops the towel, beckons Sharleen with a crooked finger. She bargains with him—her flesh, his money. He opens a drawer, pulls out a wad of bills. Sharleen counts the money and smiles. My heart hammers inside my chest. Sharleen strips down to her thong. You never saw anything so beautiful.
She leads him to the deck. “Let’s do it out here,” she says. He drops the towel, a well-hung millionaire. The sight of him hard as rebar triggers my rage. They’re kissing when I come up. His hand is between her legs. I am so jealous. I’ve got this metal baseball bat. I pop his knee with the bat. He goes crazy, cursing us. The guy is heavier than he looks. We muscle him toward the railing, prop him up. She grabs an ankle. I grab an ankle. We give him a heave. I am sweating like back home in Charleston. He screams going down.
And there’s the timer….
While Karla was reading, Helene had this creepy déjà vu feeling. The scene felt so real, the language so pure, no wasted words. The victim was rich. He lived in a gated community. Helene had forgotten—maybe Murdock would remember who had lived in Pebble Beach. It was time for a break. Where was Murdock? What was he doing? Who had said something about Charleston?
There was commotion outside—voices, shouts, laughter—and Helene remembered the press conference, two senators making an announcement, the grime of politics invading the hotel. Ackerman had some fancy contacts. When Helene opened the door, Helene saw Iveta Macek on her cellphone. Iveta’s hair was wet. She must have been to the pool.
Chapter 59
At ten o’clock, Hiram Fish showed up at Vortex Bank. He had an appointment with Mr. Cypher. A woman with a name badge made apologies. “Mr. Cypher’s not feeling well. He called in sick.”
Fish fumed. Hawthorne was dead. Fish wanted the bank to verify his signature. He brought out his transfer document. He stared at the woman; she was no one. Hawthorne had died last night, close to the time Fish had watched him sign the document. What the hell was going on? His cellphone rang. It was Jimbo Gypsum, asking where Fish was.
“Sorry,” Fish said, “I had a personal matter to take care of.”
“We’ve been waiting on you, Mr. Vice-President-To-Be. Too late to regroup now, so how about you join the party at the hotel?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
*****
Lottie Ackerman Bell answered her phone.
The caller was Iveta Macek.
The girl’s voice was shaky. She had just seen Hiram Fish, the fat man from Prague. Danny Ackerman was in the hospital. Not a heart attack, but a concussion. Macek was frightened.
“What happened to Danny?”
“He was beaten by ruffians, then robbed.”
“Let me handle Fish. You stay out of sight.”
“Please hurry,” Macek said.
Lottie pulled out her camera. She didn’t trust her smartphone—not enough security. The camera was a gift from the Ack. It was old, it had been dropped, killed, mangled—and it always came back to life.
The photos showed Fish in a black rubber bra. He wore white diapers. A pink bathing cap.
He was wedging his fat self between the outflung legs of Iveta Macek.
Macek wore a mask.
Her body looked young, supple, shapely.
Her hands were on the chubby chest of Hiram Fish. She was trying to push him away.
The photos revealed Fish as a kinky sexual predator.
*****
Coming into Oak Creek Village, Ackerman saw his hotel, the construction work on his penthouse. He had come here to die. Being here had brought him alive. A lot of others had died. Ackerman was still on his feet, feeling ten years younger. Iveta asked what he was thinking.
“I’m so glad about you and Danny,” he said.
“Why do you call him that?”
“Always did, since the first day.”
“I think Daniel, he prefers to be called, more than Danny.”
“When he wakes up, we can talk about that.”
She patted his hand. She parked the Prius beside the Humvee.
The parking lot was filling up.
Ackerman remembered the upcoming press conference, Jimbo Gypsum and Fatso Fish, teaming up on the Far Right, talking like centrist compromisers, lying through their teeth.
On Court One, Ackerman saw Breedlove hitting with Javier Trujillo. Ackerman sighed. No tennis this morning, maybe this afternoon.
Ackerman was hungry. So was Iveta. She squeezed his arm. They found Murdock in the Bell Rock Bistro, sipping coffee, checking stuff from a folder. Murdock asked about Daniel. Iveta started crying, then rushed away toward the ladies. Ackerman briefed Murdock on the hospital. The noise from the lobby was louder now, the crowd chanting for Gypsum and Fish.
Ackerman turned to Murdock. “Helene tell you about my job offer?”
“Yes.”
“You coming along?”
“You offering me a job, Ack?”
“One year,” Ackerman said. “A million dollars.”
“Make better money at five grand a day,” Murdock said. “Plus a bonus if I stop a bullet headed for you.”
Ackerman laughed. He liked Murdock. The guy was not a toady. He did not suck up. He did not kiss ass. Ackerman stood. Time for his massage. He took the stairs to the lobby, checking his leg strength. People with nothing else to do packed the lobby, holding signs—JIMBO FOR PRESIDENT. Someone grabbed his arm. It was Diana Trask, Phoenix TV. She wanted a quote. Ackerman hated sound bites, but she did look good. A little marijuana and she could fuck like a mink.
She waved the camera guy over. Her TV face was not like her bedroom face. “Hi,” she said. “Diana Trask here at Sedona Landing chatting with Axel Ackerman, a well-known billionaire Democrat, and ….”
Ackerman saw movement across the room. Jimbo Gypsum, surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service guys. A booming voice called, “Hey, pool boy!” It was Hiram Fish, wearing a fake Stetson.
Diana Trask stared at Ackerman. She said, “Pool Boy … what’s that about?”
Ackerman did not answer. He stepped into the elevator, used the penthouse keycard. Left Diana Trask standing in the lobby. It was time to put the hurt on Hiram Fish.
Chapter 60
With the workshop done, Helene packed up her writing stuff. She felt frazzled. She needed coffee. She was disturbed by Karla’s last read—the tone, the detail, the Pebble Beach setting. Didn’t Freddy Delaplane have a home there? Was that just a coincidence? What did Delaplane look like? Did he have white hair and a good winter tan?
Outside the Yavapai Room, a crowd packed the corridor, a human stream moving toward the lobby—TV crews, people in Stetson hats waving handwritten banners that said GYPSUM FOR PREXY.
In the Bell Rock Bistro, Helene saw Murdock talking to Iveta Macek, Daniel’s fiancée. They were sitting at Ackerman’s table, and Iveta was using her hands as she talked. Murdock waved Helene over. Helene took a deep breath, stopped at the serving bar for a coffee. She hesitated because she craved cream and sugar. Shook her head and moved toward the table. There were tears on Iveta’s cheeks.
Iveta was just back from visiting Daniel at the CRMC. She gave a teary-eyed report on his concussion, his bruises from the beating. His wallet was missing, and his Rolex. Helene listened while Iveta retold the story from last night. How Daniel had received a phone call from the policeman named Slattery. How excited Daniel had been, because he wanted to help his father. How
the thieves stole his wallet, left him for dead. This was America. How could this be?
Helene sipped her coffee. Who would pose as Steve Slattery? Who wanted to hurt Daniel? Murdock needed more coffee. The waitress was busy. Murdock excused himself, walked to the serving table.
“I like your friend,” Iveta said.
“Everyone does.”
“How long have you been together?”
“A few months.”
“I have started your book,” Macek said. “It is quite good, you know—I actually saw the trees and bushes. Where is this Carolina?”
“On the East Coast,” Helene said. “Could you answer a couple questions about last night?”
“Of course.”
“What time was it when Daniel got the phone call?”
“It was quite dark,” Iveta said. “Four-something. I was asleep.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He was going to help his father. His face was, you know, bright with light.”
“How did he know who Slattery was?”
“From the TV, that awful falling at ….”
Macek froze in mid-sentence. She had seen something … or someone. She shook her head, this cannot be happening, and vaulted out of her chair. Quick-walking across the bistro carpet, she opened the door that led to the pool and the tennis courts and went out of sight. Murdock came back carrying three fresh coffees.
“Where’s she going?” Murdock said.
“She was looking at the door—there’s your jungle buddy. And a fat man.”
“Senator Hiram Fish,” Murdock said. “Ackerman’s favorite politico.”
Fish wore a fringed leather jacket and the symbolic badge of honor out West—the sweat-stained Stetson, tilted back. Fish made the telephone hand sign, thumb to ear, little finger to lips. Then he pointed at Murdock.
“How do you know him?”
“Monty introduced us at the coffee place. I told you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
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