Cops exited in twos and threes, discussing the big snow in Flagstaff—multi-vehicle collisions, two semis sprawled across I-17, a seven-mile backup, more officers needed.
The TV anchor, Diana Trask, asked Helene what she was doing. Helene covered her mind-map.
“Just notes,” she said. “Armchair sleuthing.”
“They say you shot the shooter, the one who tried to murder Axel?”
“How do you know Axel?” Helene said.
“From way back,” the blonde said, “before the inevitable weight-gain.”
“You don’t look heavy to me,” Helene said.
“Thanks. I’m Diana Trask, by the way.”
“Helene Steinbeck. You’re very good on TV.”
“Thanks,” Trask said. “I’ve got your book, and I’ve gotta run. Is there some time we could get together? I’d love your take on these killings.”
Helene said of course. They exchanged numbers. Trask’s phone buzzed, pulling her away. Helene watched her move off—nice figure, and Helene was always open to new friends. Was Diana Trask another Ackerman conquest?
Helene walked to the white board and started transcribing her mind-map. She drew a box for the Past, then put words inside: Amarillo, Wilson Family, Ackerman’s 5-man Crew, Ramsay, schoolyard scuffle, Penny Diamond, Wilson Family, Wilson’s Fine Furniture, cooking the books, bankruptcy, romance, 30 years ago, photos of Joey and Penny, Joseph Wilson, falling. Outside the circle, she wrote the word Past.
“What the fuck is that?” Slattery said.
“A mind-map,” Helene said. “ It gives us the Big Picture, connections, insights. You guys jump in any time.”
“Like jumping into chaos,” Slattery said, “of which we already got enough of.”
“I like it,” Connie said. “Keep going.”
Helene drew a bubble, then printed words inside: Sedona Landing, Oak Creek Village, Cathedral Rock, Findlay (Crew), Lemon Custard Bistro, Vortex Bank, glass-walled office, Ackerman, his family, tennis, Teri Breedlove, Executive Spa, Penny Diamond (Charity Plum) dead.
She used a smaller circle to group the wounded: Giselle, Bruno, Karla, and Murdock. She added Ackerman, then the word bruised. She stepped back, her brain feeling jazzed, before writing WARNING PHONE CALL? in caps.
“Now we’re cooking,” Slattery said. “Ask your Ouija board who made that ever-so-coincidental phone call.”
Helene kept working, tried to ignore the slurs from Slattery. She needed a chronology. She made separate boxes for days of the week.
Sunday, Findlay falls.
Monday, Delaplane falls.
Tuesday, Ten Foxglove Lane, 8 people dead.
Wednesday, no one dies.
Thursday, George Hawthorne falls.
Friday, Penny/Charity wounds two, kills one.
Helene drew circles around the word falling. She connected the five men who had died by falling. Then she ran an arc from the five men to Joseph Wilson. Printed the words DIED FROM FALLING in caps, and stepped away again.
Slattery yawned. “Translation, Steinbeck.”
“Joseph Wilson,” Helene said. “He jumped off a school fire escape.”
“When was this? The Dark Ages?”
“Thirty years ago. In Amarillo.”
“Ho fucking hum,” Slattery said. “Who the hell is Joseph Wilson?”
“Father of Joey,” Helene said. “Owner of Wilson’s Fine Furniture—the last job for Ackerman’s Crew.”
“I don’t get it,” Slattery said.
Connie said, “Helene is digging up corpses from the past, Steve.”
“Oh,” Slattery said. “Cold Case City. I dig that angle. Why didn’t you say so?”
Helene smiled as she enclosed the word Catalyst in a bubble. Connected Catalyst to Sedona Landing, Ackerman, the Crew—then she put Vortex Bank inside a bubble, connected it to glass-walled office. Slattery said “Fuck it, I need coffee” and left the room.
Connie stood beside Helene. She had heard of mind-maps; this one was very elaborate. Helene stepped away from the white board. She had forgotten Cypher. She added his name next to Vortex Bank, connected it to the glass-walled office.
Slattery came back with three coffees.
“Why is Jeremy’s name up there?” Connie said.
“Cypher’s the connector in the Sedona Landing deal,” Helene said. “He sits in that office and …. How well do you guys know him, anyway?”
“He’s a fucking fixture in this town,” Slattery said. “Village Council, heads up committees, gets things done around here.”
“You should query some of the gals in the valley,” Connie said.
“I think he’s banging the Breedlove chick,” Slattery said.
“No way,” Connie said. “Teri’s a Virgin for Christ.”
“Maybe that’s her cover,” Slattery said. “Maybe underneath, Breedlove is a Saudi. Works under cover for the Shah.”
“The Shah was Iranian, Steve. Not Arab.”
“Yo, Fremont. This is the US of A. In this country, a raghead is a raghead.”
Helene sat down. Her brain had slowed—no more charged insights. She had left something out of her mind-map—she didn’t know what. Slattery’s negative vibe was stupid, and the coffee tasted bitter. She exhaled and went looking for Murdock. She liked him better when he went a little crazy. Like that oration in the exam room, his plea for drugs.
*****
When he was hurt, Murdock enjoyed drugs. They removed the pain, gave him a nice pair of rose-colored glasses. With those glasses, the world was a better place. The nurse left the room. Murdock stood up, and the room whirled. He sat on the bed. Helene came through the door. For a long hopeful minute, Murdock felt a hug coming his way. She touched his shoulder, asked how he was doing. He asked her how she liked the rose-colored glasses. She went out, came back with a wheelchair.
They were going to see Ackerman.
*****
Ackerman was pressing the call button when his super-sleuths walked in. They looked tired. Murdock was in a wheelchair, his arm in a sling. Helene took a seat in a hospital chair. Ackerman was disappointed. Why didn’t she sit on the edge of the bed? He was having second thoughts about hiring her. Watching Helene, Ackerman remembered Dallas, the big house of Dirksen Fish, the image of Daphne Houston Fish, bare tanned feet, the swimming pool, the trip up the stairs, his eyes fixed on her flexing calves, leading him into the master bedroom, tan lines across her smooth torso. You naughty boy, Daphne had said, you caught me in my prime. After you, there is nothing.
Ackerman shook his head, shooed the memories away.
“Give me a damage report,” Ackerman said.
“Karla Kurtz is hurt but tough,” Murdock said. “I was there when Slattery grilled her. He asked if she knew the shooter. She said, no way. Giselle Roux will need plastic surgery; Charity’s bullet took out a chunk of thigh. Bruno took a hit in the shoulder; his wound is worse than mine.”
“The penthouse?”
“What about it?”
“Is it livable?”
“It’s a palace of yellow ribbons,” Helene said. “They’re guarding it twenty-four/seven.”
“I haven’t thanked you for rescuing me. You got there fast. Where were you, anyway?”
“We were on Seven,” Helene said. “We had just found your daughter in the stairwell. Got her into an ambulance—”
“Lottie is here?”
“Right down the hall.”
“Get her in here,” Ackerman said.
“She was unconscious when we looked in,” Helene said.
“Daniel?”
“Still out, but the docs say he’ll be okay. How are you?”
“I’m going ahead with the acquisition,” Ackerman said. “So you people get Cypher lined up. Call him right now. We’ll need a list …. Right now, okay?”
*****
Helene’s feet dragged. Her face felt droopy. She shook off the wave of fatigue, moved to the big window alcove, phoned Cypher using her
contacts list. Cypher’s voicemail came on. Helene left a message. She was with Murdock in Ackerman’s room and had questions for Cypher.
Room 700 had two beds, but it was big enough for two more. It had two bathrooms. The one with the open door showed a roll-in shower. Get clean, never leave your wheelchair. This room had the fire escape for this side of the building. The window was wide, like a French slider. Behind her, Murdock was quizzing Ackerman.
“How did you meet Karla?” Murdock said.
“You’re off topic, Detective. I’m talking business here. I’m talking acquisition, maybe my last one on God’s green earth, and you people—”
Murdock said it again, “Where did you meet Karla Kurtz?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I met her at that cute coffee place. She had a little card that said, Licensed Massage Person. She was so beautiful … those slick legs. I paid money for a trial massage. She was excellent, great hands, so I put her under contract. Haven’t we been over this?”
“Okay,” Helene said. “How did you connect with Cypher?”
“You people are trying my patience. Cypher knew the hotel owners; they had a banker in Tucson. Bud Tyler was working with the Tucson guy, something happened, and Cypher stepped in, as a favor.”
“What happened?” Helene said.
“An accident, something with snow, skiing, snowboarding … hell, why don’t you ask Cypher?”
“What did you think when you saw Penny/Charity in your Spa?”
“Jumping around, are we? Trying to trick an old wounded man?”
“How quick did you recognize her?”
“When I saw those crazy eyes.”
“What did she say?”
“She was babbling—altars, fathers, babies, who owed what to whom. I wanted to ask why she stole from me. Then she shot Karla.”
“Who else knew you were getting a massage at noon?” Helene said.
“Giselle, Bruno, you people.”
“How about Teri Breedlove?”
“Maybe. She’s always checking schedules, filling up her day, but you don’t really think—”
“Someone phoned Raul,” Murdock said. “The voice was male, spoke with an accent.”
“When?” Ackerman said.
“Helene took the call. She hustled up to the Spa.”
“Pretty fucking close,” Ackerman said.
“What do you think of Cypher?” Helene said.
“I think he should have known about the competing bid—Ramsay and those Arabs.”
“So,” Murdock said. “Let’s run it again. Tyler got the ball rolling. Then he called you?”
“I was done with projects,” Ackerman said. “Sedona was hectic, tourists fucking it up, but Oak Creek Village was paradise. Winter sun, no traffic—did I tell you I’m buying the airport? That runway is abominable. Did I tell you there’s a man here, Dr. Timothy, a veritable shaman who keeps me active between the sheets? People are always doing that, coming in handy. Like you people when I needed sleuths. Like Cypher when I wanted to add the penthouse. From up there, you can see all the way to Mexico, not have to go there. My remodel? Cypher squared it with the owners, for an extra fifty grand. I was sick when I arrived—down on my uppers, my mama used to say—and this place healed me. Magic of the vortex, right? When can I see my daughter?”
Chapter 68
Lottie Ackerman Bell woke up to find her stray cat, Iveta Macek, wearing hospital scrubs, her face splotchy from crying. Lottie held out her arms. “Hello, kitten.” The two women hugged. The hug brought pain to Lottie’s back. She asked what happened. Her brain rolled like surf off the French coast. From Iveta, she learned about her fall, the shooting in the Penthouse Spa. Lottie’s father was next door. Her brother Daniel was down the hall, still in a coma. Iveta had not seen Senator Fish. But Lottie could feel him coming.
The mention of Fish triggered memories of the stairwell, a man wearing a handkerchief to hide his face, a baseball cap to hide his hair. Lottie asked about her purse, her wallet, her smartphone. She watched Iveta make a search. Fish had sent someone for those photos. Lottie had more on her laptop, which was in her room. She asked Iveta for help. But sitting up brought a headache, a knife slicing into her brain. She sagged back.
They chatted about the past, their first meeting in the dress shop in Prague. Lottie had seen something special in Iveta. They went for tea. It was a test, pouring tea from a china pot in a luxury hotel, with a clutch of men watching. Iveta was under thirty; she had served in the Czech Army. She knew how to read maps, move through the underbrush, handle weapons. Men found her attractive. Lottie needed her help, getting photos of an old enemy. Not just any photos, but the compromising kind. And today, Lottie had been attacked for the photos. She had duplicates in Paris. She had more duplicates on a flash drive in her luggage. She told Iveta to call Bruno. He was hurt. Giselle was hurt.
Lottie said, “Kitten, you’ve got to search my carry-on. That slimy bastard has to be stopped.”
“But how?” Iveta said.
“Find a way,” Lottie said. “Pretend you’re back in the army.”
*****
Cypher crossed the interstate, headed for Geronimo Airport. He checked his computer; the private jet carrying Arthur Ackerman was seven minutes late, time enough to set up with the sun over the left shoulder, perfect for the shot.
He laid the rifle in the bipod, adjusted the scope, and checked the crosshairs; they had a mind of their own. The crosshairs were alive. They stood at attention, waiting for orders. They tugged the gun muzzle to the right, just a tiny bit. The voice in his head said, this way, yes, easy, now, there, and then a tiny ching inside his head, like a wind chime from Tibet, and the voice—shooter, we are on target.
The plane landed. Arthur Ackerman emerged, the overcoat draped from his shoulders, sleeves empty, so cool. The cool vanished when the bullet tore into his leg. There were two bodyguards, one female, one male. When they turned, playing FBI agents on the TV, arms out, two hands on the gun, they looked straight into the afternoon sun. They each took a bullet. Three people down, ambulance needed.
Cypher telephoned Breedlove. She was heading for his house. She had the nurse uniform. What was it for? “Getting in,” he said. “Getting out.” Cypher loved the bank. He could have stayed there forever, grow old in Sedona, Golden Years for the old person, but now he had work to do. Payback for the family of Axel Ackerman.
He heard a voice, turned to see Joey in the death seat. Joey grinned, gave Cypher the thumbs up. He said one word, “Ulysses.”
*****
Hiram Fish had plans.
The two candidates for high office wound up the Cottonwood press conference and Fish said he was tired. He wanted to go back to the hotel. Featherstone was dead. Fish took his vehicle.
Fish wanted to drive himself. He had some thinking to do. He needed a disguise, something for a hospital visit.
In the consignment store on the edge of town, Fish located a section that said Medical.
He tried on white lab coats, each one troubled with a stain.
*****
Cypher parked in the garage. He let himself into the house and turned off the alarm. Dumping the desert camos into the washer—trousers, blouse, Army-issue underwear, heavy khaki socks—he started the wash and entered the shower. The water cleared the cobwebs that always came with a mission—the brain in retreat, the synapses firing like little skyrockets. He shaved his face. Then he shaved under his arms, a trick he’d learned in the Hindu Kush. If you couldn’t get a bath, you could still eliminate the armpit hair and cut down on the rancid smell of fear. He remembered the first time he had shaved. He was thirteen, using Father’s razor, a major thrill. He was keeping the books; he was in love with Penny Diamond. She changed his life. She ruined his life.
Cypher stood in front of the mirror. Joey hovered over his right shoulder, waving the Odyssey, the blue-print for the ambush at the CRMC. Joey ranted on, blaming Ackerman for destroying his childhood. He blamed the Crew. He
blamed Penny Diamond. She had caught Joey trying to save the business; she called it cooking the books.
The doorbell rang, and Joey faded. Cypher tugged on the EMT pants and a T-shirt. He opened the door to find Teri Breedlove, shivering in her nurse uniform and carrying a shopping bag. He smelled marijuana; she was high. Her face was soft against his cheek. She blew into his ear, led him to the bedroom, removed the uniform, and assumed the prone position, face on the pillow, arms like wings, butt in the air.
Cypher heard Joey’s voice, holy shit, bro, it’s the girl next door.
Cypher touched the Promise Ring; Breedlove touched his manhood. Her fingers were cool.
“Wow,” she said, “my mom was right on.”
“Right on about what?”
“About this,” she said. “I am so juiced.”
Chapter 69
Murdock was yawning. Helene took him straight to the exam room, helped him onto the table. Her lips were close to his cheek, just turn your head and do it. She stopped; Murdock looked sad. He took her hand. Asked her what she was going to do.
“Back to the mind-map,” she said.
In the staff meeting room, Helene saw that someone had erased Cypher’s name, but had left the connecting lines and part of the bubble. Slattery and Connie were on their phones. Helene took her time printing Cypher’s name again. Connie finished her phone call and stood beside Helene. She asked about Murdock. Helene felt the heat; she was jealous.
“Did you take Cypher’s name off my mind-map?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Gave me the creeps,” Connie said.
“My partner has the creeps,” Slattery said. “Just what this fucking case needs.”
“I dated him,” Connie said.
“Dated whom?” Helene said.
“Jeremy,” Connie said. “Okay?”
“Jesus Christ, Fremont,” Slattery said.
“How did it end?” Helene said.
“We went out a couple times,” Connie said. “He’s single, good job, looks really safe. He was ultra-attentive to me, real clean guy. Shaves under his arms, what every man should do, in my humble opinion. He took me to some lovely restaurants. I got to wear clothes with him I would never have a chance to wear again.”
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