Murdock Rocks Sedona Read online

  Murdock Rocks Sedona

  A Matt Murdock Mystery

  Robert J. Ray

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

  www.robertjrayauthor.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Murdock Rocks Sedona

  Copyright © 2016 by Robert J. Ray

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-337-2 (eBook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-883-4 (Trade Paper)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015951906

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * * *

  This book is for Margot,

  who took me to Sedona

  to see the Red Rocks.

  The nature of Infinity is this: That every thing has its Own Vortex; and when once a traveller thro’ Eternity Has pass’d that Vortex, he perceives it roll backward behind His path, into a Globe itself enfolding, like a sun, Or like a moon, or like a universe of starry majesty, While he keeps onwards in his wondrous journey on the Earth, Or like a human form, a friend with whom he liv’d benevolent.

  —William Blake

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre,

  the falcon cannot hear the falconer.

  —W.B. Yeats

  * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Jack Remick helped me through every phase of this book, from the rough drafts at Louisa’s to the cutting away of useless stuff, so I could focus on the spine. Catherine Treadgold taught me about villains and suspense. She is a terrific editor and a stalwart publisher. The writers at Louisa’s Bakery and Bar listened to nine months of unborn, vestigial prose, while I struggled to give birth to this book which had been in my left brain for years. Thanks to my wife Margot, I can still work at this advanced age.

  * * * *

  Prologue

  Falling Man

  The waitress with the black wig brought Walter a fresh drink, Martini on the rocks, aromatic Bombay gin, three olives, stabbed with a pink plastic spear. She flashed her smile, working on her tip.

  “Do I know you?” he said.

  There was a pause; she was selecting her answer. Three wives and multiple live-ins and beach-girls by the score, and Walter still didn’t understand women. Her smile got brighter. She donated a bag of peanuts.

  “You a gambler?” the waitress said. “I spent some time dealing cards in Vegas.”

  She did look familiar, no question. He did know her from somewhere. She was 40-something, tight hips, wise eyes, a girl who’d been around. Her face swam in his memory—sharp canines and a pouty mouth that could break your heart—but where had their paths crossed?

  “What brings a girl like you to a place like Sedona?” he said.

  “Guys like you,” she said, and sauntered away. Walter knew that walk.

  He turned back to the screen. It was Retro Film Night at the Lemon Custard Bistro on Apple Avenue in Sedona. Six screens playing The Big Lebowski, smell of popcorn and weed.

  A woman three tables away gave Walter the sign. A raised glass, a long look, a deliberate crossing of black leggings. The woman was blonde, tanned, inviting.

  Walter walked over. She indicated the chair next to hers.

  Her name was Doreen. She was traveling from L.A. to Miami, stopped off in Sedona to play tourist and waltz with a vortex. Up close, the blonde hair looked like a wig.

  He felt her knee under the table. He finished his martini. The waitress appeared with a refill.

  The second martini loosened him up.

  Doreen sat closer. He smelled perfume.

  He told her he was buying Sedona Landing, a historic hotel in picturesque Oak Creek Village, seven miles to the south.

  Doreen was impressed.

  The hotel was not all his. He was buying the ninth floor. Doreen was making sexual overtures. Had he ever waltzed in winter moonlight? For two hundred dollars, she could give him a taste of the vortex in the dark.

  Doreen had Walter sweating. He was dressed for the outdoor life. A fast-dry T-shirt from ExOfficio. A wind-proof shirt from Abercrombie. A parka from North Face. The waitress came back. Doreen said “Hi, do I know you?” Walter watched the women shake hands. They did not seem like strangers. Two women wearing wigs—his lucky night.

  Doreen drove a Lexus SUV.

  She gave him the keys. Walter left his rental, a Cadillac Escalade, at the bistro.

  They headed west, toward Cathedral Rock.

  Walter had climbed it this morning; the trail was easy.

  Doreen put her hand on his leg.

  How come he wasn’t married?

  Walter was between wives.

  He paid a ton in alimony, child support.

  Her hand slid into his crotch.

  The parking lot for Cathedral Rock was deserted.

  Headlights from the Lexus bounced off reflective signs.

  WELCOME TO CATHEDRAL ROCK.

  Walter led the way up.

  He’d been in Sedona for a week.

  Had gotten lucky on Monday, a divorcée named Betty Sue something. Walter was 68, Betty Sue was early forties, with a knockout daughter. Betty’s business was real estate. She lectured him—the plural of vortex was vortexes, and not vortices. Would he get lucky tonight?

  Walter knew words. He had a BA from Princeton, an MBA from Wharton. An MFA from Rutgers. He knew proper singulars, proper plurals. The correct plural of vortex was vortices. The people in Sedona were dummies.

  Close to the top, Walter felt the martinis.

  A wave of dizziness.

  “Are you okay?” Doreen asked.

  “Gripped by the vortex,” he said.

  Doreen stood close. He liked her body heat. He liked her hand inside his pants. He heard a zipper being unzipped. His pants slithered to his knees. He saw a flash of light from the south. Some clown taking pictures in the moonlight.

  The moon beamed down. Doreen went to her knees. Walter liked the way things were going. Every millionaire’s dream—to get yourself undressed by a slave girl on her knees.

  The boots were off.

  The trousers were down. Like shucking corn, he thought.

  Walter was waiting for an invitation. He believed in a woman’s right to choose.

  Women made you wait, consider, negotiate, get consensus, no worries.

  Doreen got his trousers off, took his hands. Let’s dance.

  Out there to the south, Walter saw the tiny light winking.

  Holding hands, they swung around, two lovers in moonlight.

  A voice said, “Hello.”

  It was the waitress with the wig. She had exchanged her heels for hiking boots. She had a silver flask and three glasses. “Refills,” she said. Walter was thinking, Two is better than one. His feet were cold. Doreen helped him with the boots.

  The moon was bright now, cold yellow light, wind on his bare butt.

  His wallet was in the trousers.

  They had a drink.

  Doreen stood next to Walter, her warm hip pressing.

  You are not alone.

  Doreen let go, the waitress gripped his hands. She wanted to dance. Walter was a baton, being passed from female to female. Where did he know her from?

  She danced him in a circle; he was the vortex turning, churning.

  She
danced him close to the edge.

  Did he remember her?

  Inside his head, Walter flashed on a prairie town, red brick streets, elm trees in summer, Ackerman in shirtsleeves, a business housed in Quonset huts, a slim girl with red hair.

  They whirled faster. He remembered her now. He whispered her name.

  “You always had a good memory,” she said.

  And let him go.

  Walter Findlay whirled in space.

  He laughed. The tiny light was winking, closer now.

  Before he hit the ground he saw the waitress.

  On the edge.

  Waving goodbye.

  *****

  The light that winked in the dark came from a jazzy camera belonging to Helene Steinbeck. The shooter was Matt Murdock, following orders. The camera was new. Helene wanted some pictures shot in the dark. “Get a shot of the moon,” she said.

  He’d asked her to come with him. She blocked him with excuses. Her feet still hurt, had he forgotten the rocks on Angel Mountain? She had to prepare for her writing workshop; the book was driving her crazy.

  It wasn’t just the book. They were having troubles with their relationship. Helene was avoiding him. She had stopped eating meat, was swimming twice a day. When Murdock asked was something wrong, Helene shook her head, gave him a bleak smile.

  To keep busy, Murdock was helping at the hotel, spelling the desk guy, the security guy, the pool guy, giving Helene some space by running at night. His legs felt stronger. Maybe when he showed her the pictures, she’d give him a smile that said things were okay.

  So he shot Cathedral Rock, using Helene’s fancy new camera, a pricey megazoom. He shot the moon, hanging bright behind the mountain. He didn’t know cameras or settings; he shot not caring what the camera would do. It was November, and Murdock was feeling the wind-chill. Time to head back to Sedona Landing.

  Day One

  Chapter 1

  Axel Ackerman dreamed of falling.

  He fell down the curved staircase at a fancy hotel.

  He fell from a stepladder, changing a light bulb in a strange house.

  He fell into a Dallas swimming pool, pushed by the woman who called him Pool Boy. He chased her through the kitchen, up the curved staircase, into the master bedroom. “Come on, Pool Boy, show me what you got.” Her legs sprang open. Her red mouth mocked him. “Faster, Pool Boy. Sock it to me.”

  A flash from the doorway.

  A fat kid firing a Kodak Instamatic.

  His voice shrill in exaltation—“My Daddy’s gonna kill you!”

  “Should have aborted the fat one,” the woman said.

  Ackerman gave chase. The fat kid rode the banister with ease, grinning like a winner. Ackerman tripped on the landing, launched into a swan dive. The floor rose to meet him, and he heard laughter. “Now I got you, Pool Boy.”

  The dream of falling jerked Ackerman awake. He lay on the bed sweating, his heart loud, his calves cramping. He slept naked. He was 77 years old, skinny, too much pot belly. He had big hands and long arms, legs muscled from tennis, a twitchy prostate.

  He sat up, feeling crazy, seeing the figure in the doorway—someone here to kill him. His feet were tangled in the sheets; his chrome-plated .45 was in the tennis bag, in the Executive Spa. A deep voice said, “Phone call, Master.” The voice belonged to Bruno, his bodyguard, his brother-in-arms. The bedside clock said 5:10 a.m. Having to pee, he took the call sitting on the john.

  The caller was Mrs. Walter Findlay, Walter’s third ex-wife. What have you done with Walter? Are you boys crazy, buying an old run-down hotel? Walter was late with her alimony check, she said. Could Ackerman please send her ten grand, for old times’ sake? He said okay. She hung up. The phone bristled with female frustration.

  Ackerman dressed in swim trunks, a bathrobe, Mexican sandals. He liked getting up early. He hated dreams about falling. Bruno walked beside him, looking bulky-burly in his white turtleneck. Bruno was black, born in Germany, an Army brat. He had a master’s in art history. When he went to work for Ackerman twenty years ago, Bruno had been studying sculpture in Italy. They went through the security door, fresh carpet on the stairs, thanks to Ackerman’s remodel.

  Down on the ninth floor, Ackerman banged on Findlay’s door, Suite 900. “Walter, you in there?” he called out. “Answer the goddamn door.” There was no answer, so Ackerman tried his cell again. Goddamn the man. They had a meeting with Cypher at noon, the Vortex Bank. Findlay would cough up the cash, sign some papers—he was buying the ninth floor, he had wanted to buy Ackerman’s penthouse. Today was Monday. The closing was a week away, and the owners were nervous.

  They rode the elevator down to One—Lobby, Vestibule, Registration—where Giselle Roux met them with the contract, the book, and the cash envelope. Giselle looked tired. She had dressed for the day, jeans, a white shirt, a leather vest. The briefcase was a gift from Ackerman, a dozen years ago.

  She had an MBA from Wharton, a year of architecture courses from The Design School in Tempe. She nodded at Bruno. They were like children taking care of a decrepit father, waiting for him to die. Ackerman okayed ten thousand for the ex-Mrs. Findlay. Trailed by Bruno, Ackerman and Giselle took the ramp past the Bell Rock Bistro to the pool where the woman was swimming her laps.

  Ackerman swayed, tightened the belt of his robe. He was still feeling off-balance, blamed it on his dream of falling. Except for the woman, who was striking, he was wasting his time here, a fool’s errand.

  The woman’s gear was piled on a chair. Rucksack, socks and Birkenstocks, her hotel robe. She swam with an easy crawl stroke, the product of early training—no visible effort, no wasted motion, smooth arms dripping, her shoulder muscles catching the light. She wore a white one-piece and a white swim cap.

  The woman’s name was Helene Steinbeck. She was here at Sedona Landing for a three-week writing workshop, engineered by Giselle Roux. Ackerman liked her pedigree—an ex-cop, a one-book writer, and two months ago she had killed a chief of police gone rogue, stopping his rampage, saving many lives by taking a single life in a crowded courthouse in Taos, New Mexico.

  Ackerman was curious. He had never known a female killer.

  Chapter 2

  Helene Steinbeck loved swimming.

  She loved being alone in the hotel pool.

  She loved slipping through the water, feeling sleek, wings of a dolphin.

  She needed time to think through her relationship with Murdock. She kept retracing her time with him in Taos—their first meeting on Angel Mountain, their first kiss, their first time in bed, their first breakfast, the way they worked together on the case, the way Murdock looked at her, admiring, admitting she was smart, waiting for her to make a choice, that was so very big-time—when Giselle Roux arrived with Axel Ackerman, the billionaire who was buying Sedona Landing.

  Why would anyone buy a hotel?

  Helene was suspicious.

  She had her mother’s hair, skin, figure, love of art and literature.

  She had her father’s brain, his sharp eyes, his suspicious nose, his aversion to bullshit.

  Rich men stepped on people on their way up the ladder. Who had this Ackerman guy stepped on lately?

  The old man stood there watching her swim. His intense gaze stole her solitude, slaughtered her quiet, soft morning.

  Helene was in her late thirties. Men still looked at her—they had been looking at her since she turned thirteen—but Ackerman’s eyes did not hide their appraisal: how much is this bitch worth?

  Helene made her turn, swam two more laps. When she climbed out, she saw the old man swimming, lane eight, along the wall, long arms, big bony hands to grab the water. Beside her clothes, Helene saw a table with coffee cups, a white pot, sugar, cream. Tea party at dawn.

  Giselle was early forties, older than Helene. She had pretty blue eyes. There were silver threads in her red hair. Giselle had brought Helene to Sedona Landing for a writing workshop—Starting Your Mystery—three days a week, nine to noon. Giselle w
as the first writer to sign up. She wanted to be Helene’s friend.

  Helene checked the big clock on the wall.

  The time was 5:45. She had to shower, shave her legs, get dressed, eat, go over her notes, check with Murdock. He seemed ultra-restless in Sedona, nothing to do, no crimes to solve. The workshop started at 9 a.m. three hours from now—her first real job since resigning as Town Marshal on Drake Island.

  “I wish I had time for coffee, but ….”

  Giselle handed over an envelope, 8x5, fattish-feeling. Inside, Helene found a thick wad of hundred dollar bills and a contract with simple terms: five thousand dollars for 24 hours of security work (body-guarding, detection), starting at signature time.

  At the bottom of the page, Helene saw Ackerman’s signature, then her name. Not Murdock’s.

  “Where’s Murdock’s name?”

  “Axel wanted you.”

  “We’re a team, Giselle.”

  “I’ll speak to Axel.”

  “What are we detecting?” Helene said. “If we sign this thing.”

  “Someone’s killing off his old friends, investors in this hotel. He says it’s accidental. Old men die, Axel says.”

  “How many friends?”

  “Two, so far. One in August, one in September.”

  “Where did they die?”

  “The August death was on Fire Island,” Giselle said. “The September death was in Palm Desert.”

  “We talking rich guys here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did they die?”