Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun Read online

  I yanked Gigante's head up by the hair and caught him under the chin with my knee in a pretty standard defensive combination series that hurt like hell for me. I hoped it was equally good for him. Ignoring my own pain, I was about to angle a straight-leg punch into Gigante's jaw when suddenly, as if in poetic answer to my limited kickboxing techniques, Spider Eye dropped to his knees and bounced into a handstand position, knees tucked in tight. I recognized the move as capoeira, an exotic and lethal South American martial arts technique. He vaulted toward us and launched himself into the air about ten feet above our heads in a dramatic move designed to inflict psychological damage. Spider Eye was going for the kind of terror that immobilizes.

  "Oh my God!" Callie screamed as he sailed overhead. "Get down. He's trying to decapitate us with his legs!"

  I shoved Callie under him as he was airborne and rolled forward right behind her. He came down in what seemed like seconds behind us and literally bounced off the floor like a gymnast, doing a one-eighty in midair and spinning toward us again.

  "Grab the gun!" I shouted to Callie as we raced past the spot where Spider Eye had dumped his holster. She swooped it up, and we ran the length of the corridor and rounded the corner into the living room, both men on our heels. We dove onto the floor behind Talbot's enormous reshaped couch. I grabbed the gun from Callie and rose up over its white brocade back and fired. Nothing! The gun had misfired.

  Spider Eye smiled widely, amused that his weapon had refused to turn against him. He sprang onto the couch and reached over the back, getting a hand on me just as Callie surprised me by pepper-spraying his face. He fell back hacking and choking, the legs of the tiny tattooed spider stretching and contracting with the skin around his eye as he wheezed and gasped for breath. Desperately seeking air, Spider Eye stood up, with admittedly cosmic timing, at the split second that Gigante pulled the trigger on his gun, accidentally shooting Spider Eye in the back. He fell forward and blood splattered onto the white brocade.

  "Dios mio!” Gigante shouted, running to Spider Eye's side, apparently caring that he'd hit one of his own.

  "You're fucked, Spider Eye!" I shouted.

  "Don't antagonize them any further. Let's just get out of here!" Callie shouted, and we hit the front door at a dead run, setting off the burglar alarm.

  We were in our Jeep and down the street before any of the alarm-immune neighbors had even peeked out through their drapes.

  "The servants didn't know those guys were in the house! They must have been there to kill Talbot, because they had no way of knowing we were coming," I said as we clambered into the car.

  "What if that man recovers and identifies us?" Callie asked.

  "I wouldn't worry about that. Professional hit men rarely share the details of their work with cops," I replied.

  "Are they acrobatic killers? What are they?" Callie asked, shaken now.

  "Capoeira. An ancient martial arts technique that originated with Brazil's African slave populations, who developed incredible foot moves in response to the brutality of the slave traders. Capoeira let them fight back even when their hands were chained. They were able to practice the art because they disguised it as acrobatics and dance. That's why all the back flips, cartwheels, and handstands. Now it's been adopted by street thugs, who work so quickly and so gracefully, you can almost become mesmerized into standing still while your assailant kills you. No wonder I couldn't break away from Spider Eye in the parking garage. Nice work with the pepper spray, by the way. Where did you get it?"

  "Pepper spray and perfume are the two most important items a woman can carry. Both are immobilizing." She put her hand on my thigh and left it there as we drove. I felt an invincible warmth and a strong urge to take her to bed.

  The aerial shots of Talbot's lawn looked like a Winnebago convention. A local news anchor was broadcasting live: "Lee Talbot, head of Marathon Studios, has been found dead in his home this morning, victim of a possible heart attack, although he had shown no previous history of heart problems. Only yesterday, Mr. Talbot had his home burglarized, a man found shot inside. It was theorized that perhaps the event precipitated the heart attack. Recently, another Marathon executive was badly burned by an unknown assailant, and now this morning, the trouble-plagued studio finds its leader dead. Without Talbot's powerful leadership, the studio's future is in question. "

  "So Frank Anthony told Barrett that the list of names and other information about wrongdoing at Marathon was on the stone she had. Her boss, Robert Isaacs, president of the motion picture division, wants the stone with the list, but he doesn't want Talbot to know he's looking for it, remember? He wouldn't call him while we were there. Furthermore, he actually believed me when I said Talbot already had the stone. Now Talbot's dead. So it's reasonable to assume that Isaacs could be behind the attempts on Barrett's life, could have ordered Talbot's death, and could be the man behind Rita Smith's murder. After all, getting Eddie Smith signed was important to Isaacs's division and the financial health of the studio. It would be weird if you were married not just to a jackass, but to a murderer." After I said it, I felt bad, but Callie said nothing to retaliate, apparently hoping my venom would soon subside.

  "We told Isaacs that Talbot had the stone, and now Talbot is dead," Callie fretted.

  "Callie, you weren't responsible for your brother's death, and you're not responsible for Talbot's."

  But Callie wasn't listening. "Now Robert Isaacs will be after us," she said, "because we have the stones and we know he killed Talbot."

  I had been certain it was Talbot, and not Isaacs, Frank Anthony had tried to finger before he died. How could I have been so wrong? Maybe Frank grabbing that rock when he died meant nothing. Who knows what anyone would clutch with his last dying breath.

  As if she could see into my mind, Callie suddenly said, "It means something. Frank Anthony was a smart man. He went to his grave trying to tell someone his killer's name."

  "Frank Anthony is killed at his gym, shot once in the head and once in the chest and then set on fire. He's wearing his gym shorts and next to him is his gym bag and towel. Barrett Silvers gets a death stone delivered to her at Orca's and nearly gets kissed to death. Then I go to Frank Anthony's house, where Ramona Mathers tells me Frank died clutching a death stone. Caruthers says he didn't, but Waterston Evers confirms he sold Frank two death stones and Ramona Mathers tells us Frank Anthony gave one to Barrett that apparently matched the one he kept. The fragments say Tal on them."

  "Or washcloth," Callie said.

  "That's it. Or washcloth....ox towel. Mathers ticked off the items found next to Frank. Gym bag, rock, and towel. Maybe Frank Anthony was saying the answer was on the towel."

  "You mean like DNA bloodstains?"

  "I don't know what I mean." I grabbed the phone and dialed Wade at the police department. Miraculously, he was at his desk, where one rarely finds a police officer. He could tell by my voice something was up.

  "Have you got everything that was found at the scene of the Anthony murder?" I asked.

  "You think we give it away to Goodwill? Of course we've got it," he drawled.

  "You got the towel?" I asked.

  "Yeeeeah," Wade dragged the word out as if to say, are you going to tell me what this is about?

  "Can you get it and call me back?"

  "It's in the evidence locker. I can take a cell phone in there and call you back, which I'm not supposed to do, and which never happened, if you're asked."

  In ten minutes my phone rang. "Holding the towel," Wade said.

  "Is there blood on it?"

  "Let's see, a little jock-jack, BO, but no blood." I could hear him grinning.

  "You're grossing me out. Just tell me everything that's on the towel," I said.

  "Not until you tell me what you're up to."

  "Frank Anthony was clutching a death stone when he died..."

  "No, he wasn't."

  "He was, but the murderer pried it out of his hand and then delivered it to Barrett Silv
ers as a warning. The fragment contained the word towel. At first I thought it was Talbot, but now I think it meant look on the towel."

  "The only thing on the towel is a health club emblem and the words Tulsa Health Club."

  "Shit. What does the emblem look like?"

  "Bunch of scrolly stuff with the letters THC for Tulsa Health Club."

  "Okay," I sighed. "Sorry for the trouble, Wade, thanks." Hanging up the phone, I looked at Callie. "Nothing."

  Chapter Eighteen

  With Talbot dead, I was convinced that only Isaacs knew who was head of the whole operation, and I had devised a plan to flush Isaacs out. It required perfect timing and the hand-eye coordination of a fighter pilot. I rummaged through my closet for my cell phone scanner and took it with me to the car. Maybe I was out to get Isaacs to fill in the blanks on this story, or maybe I was just after him to punish him for ever thinking he could own Callie.

  Marathon had wasted no time in announcing the promotion of Robert Isaacs to chairman, although Talbot's body wasn't even in the ground yet. In fact, his body wasn't even scheduled for the ground for another twenty-four hours, in order to allow everyone who loved Talbot to pay his or her respects at the cathedral rotunda, which would be open around the clock. Like a theme park attraction, Lee Talbot's dead body was expected to draw quite a crowd. At the cathedral entrance, massive flower arrangements rested comfortably on stands, balloons in tastefully muted colors bobbed in the wind, and little white doves trailed above the doorway. The only thing missing was popcorn and fireworks.

  We entered through the thick, hand-carved wooden doors at about eight o'clock in the evening. It was dark outside, and the bon voyage for Lee Talbot had trickled down to only a few well-wishers. It felt decidedly spooky to visit bodies after dark, but I had timed our arrival to coincide with Robert Isaacs's arrival, fairly certain he'd want to be there just before the ten o'clock news, in case there was a photo op.

  "What if he recognizes you?" Callie whispered.

  "My own mother wouldn't recognize me. I haven't dressed like this since my senior prom!" Wearing a black dress and an auburn wig, I felt as overgroomed as a Westminster poodle. "I haven't worn a dress in years," I moaned.

  "Nice legs." Callie patted my behind.

  "That's not my legs."

  "It's been so long, I've lost track of where everything is located."

  "Are you complaining?" I asked, feeling butterflies in my stomach at the thought of her touching me.

  "I guess I am. I want you and I miss you." She put her arms around me lovingly and kissed my neck. No one in the parking lot even glanced at us because we were in one of the acceptable gay-nuzzling zones. Airport terminals and cemeteries being among them. It crossed my mind that, in our culture, if women were sad, frightened, or bereaved, they were permitted whatever nuzzling they required. However, if things turned joyous, most likely authorities would have to intervene. We were interrupted by the sight of Isaacs entering the side portico of the chapel.

  The casket was elevated on a three-tiered circular platform in the center of the room so people could approach it from all sides. The carpet leading up to it was pale green and three inches deep, with flowers springing out of it in all directions as if it were grass. Lee Talbot's coffin was a rich, metallic mauve, shinier than a new Porsche and just about as expensive. It was upholstered in a tufted rose-colored satin with satin button studs. Three brass handles were evenly spaced along each side, and its flamboyant metallic girth rested on six fancy whitewall tires. All it needed was a steering wheel and a gearshift and it could have driven itself to heaven. I waited until half a dozen people walked solemnly toward the casket, Isaacs trailing behind them. I climbed the steps slowly and gave a surreptitious hand signal to the kid in the back of the church, who couldn't believe he was going to make a hundred bucks for doing something so simple.

  Just as I reached the coffin, there was a loud crash from the vestibule. Isaacs turned to see what had happened. The young man had knocked over a flower stand, momentarily creating a disturbance.

  Isaacs turned back to the coffin to pay his respects to Lee Talbot, whose dead body lay stretched out before him, lips blue, cheeks an unnatural pink against the gray skin, and one eyelid...held down by a death stone. The note, stuck unkindly into his chest, read, "You're next, Isaacs."

  Isaacs's eyes widened in horror as he grabbed the death stone and the note and fled the rotunda.

  "Come on!" I signaled Callie, who had carefully stayed out of Isaacs's line of sight. "Now he believes whoever has been issuing the hits is coming after him. He'll go to the source to try to stop them. All we have to do is follow him." I slipped the teenage boy the hundred dollar bill as we walked out.

  "Now Robert Isaacs has the stone!" Callie seemed alarmed.

  "One of the fake stones that came from Peter Trayber. I still have the other fake, and of course, the two real ones."

  Her nose wrinkled up like an accordion, she fished an antibacterial wipe out of her handbag. "Wash your hands! Here! You've been touching a dead body!"

  "Just his eye," I said nonchalantly.

  We followed Isaacs to the parking lot and got in our car as he got in his. He immediately picked up his cell phone and dialed. I opened my glove box and took out the scanner and aimed it at his phone.

  "What are you doing?" Callie asked.

  "Scanning his cell phone number. It's a 918 area code." I read it off the screen, and Callie jotted it down.

  I waited for Isaacs to put his phone away, then I dialed. A woman answered, "Caruthers residence."

  "I'm sorry, wrong number," I hung up and stared at Callie. "So Isaacs is going to Caruthers for help. Either to tell him someone's after him, or to beg for help, or to tell him to call off the dogs."

  "I think it's the latter," Callie said knowingly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Callie hovered over her laptop, studying the horary astrology chart.

  "This is so weird." She held up the chart for me to look at, persisting in her belief that if she just continued talking to me as if I understood, one day I would.

  "At the moment of Lee Talbot's death, assuming this time is accurate, Mercury went stationary direct. Mercury ruling communications. Maybe Talbot was about to tell someone about the scheme." She picked up the original horary chart. "Do you remember when I looked at the question of whether you should drop this case and Mars was Combust the Sun?"

  She could see the blank look on my face.

  "Combustion is derived from the myth of Icarus, who flew too near the Sun. Mars, within eight degrees thirty minutes from the Sun, is Combust the Sun. I was so busy staring at you that night," she smiled, "that I failed to realize that it was more than combust. Mars and the Sun were so close—only six astrological minutes apart—that Mars and the Sun were actually Cazimi! Heart of the Sun. The Sun strengthened the planet it was aspecting. Mars got stronger. Do you understand?"

  "No, sorry."

  "Well, think about it. Mars, action or violence perhaps, was made stronger by the Sun. Violence enhanced. I think that's why the number of deaths and injuries by fire has continued with more than one victim."

  The thought crossed my mind that maybe I should get into this astrology thing just so I could hold up my half of the conversation.

  "We've got to go to Tulsa and visit Hank Caruthers. If Isaacs called him, then Caruthers could be the root of all evil, as we are fond of saying in the Midwest."

  "Okay," Callie said, "I need to get home anyway and check on a few things."

  The phone rang. It was Detective Curtis. He wanted to know if I could come down to the police station in the morning and ID the guy he thought was Spider Eye. I told him I was taking a flight out in the morning for Tulsa but I would gladly cancel it.

  "The DA wants him on an unrelated charge, so he's on ice for a few days anyway. You can meet Mr. Wonderful when you get back," Curtis assured me.

  We agreed to meet at a coffee shop near the police station the mornin
g after I returned. I hung up and told Callie that maybe they had the guy and he could help us fit the pieces together.

  "Not the guy," Callie said quietly.

  "Well, that saves me a trip," I said with sarcasm.

  "Sorry, I could be wrong."

  But I knew she wasn't.

  As Callie continued her study of the horary chart, I phoned Wanda, my faithful dog-sitter, who said she'd stay with Elmo overnight. Then I sat down with Elmo, cupped his large head in my hands, and stared into his soulful dog eyes. "I have to go to Tulsa for a few days. Wanda is coming to take care of you. She'll feed you, give you your pills, and play with you, just like I do. You'll be perfectly safe, okay?"

  Elmo flopped onto the floor in depression and Callie laughed. Kneeling down in front of Elmo, she said, "Your job, Elmo, is to guard the house while we're gone. Got it?" Her tone was crisp and businesslike, and Elmo's ears rose in anticipation of work to be done. "All creatures need a job to do. Elmo has one now," Callie said and went off to bed. Elmo followed her. A typical Hollywood animal—his loyalty was to whoever gave him work.

  Callie slid close to me, then pulled me over to her and kissed me. The initial meeting of tongues ignited erotic memories, but I wasn't ready to be loved by Callie and be denied loving her in return. I wasn't ready to love her only to find that she still couldn't give herself to me. I pulled back.

  "Letting me love you will relax you and let you sleep so you won't worry about flying tomorrow," she said.

  "I see, a purely therapeutic lovemaking. A mercy fuck."

  She pulled away quickly. "Oh, Teague, you say the most awful things."

  Our flight for Tulsa left the Burbank airport the next morning at six o'clock. Whenever I had to fly, I tried to do it quickly without planning or forethought, so I wouldn't have time for my anxiety level to build. Unfortunately, I'd had overnight to think about it as I lay awake, electrically charged by Callie's kiss. I had worked myself into a state of tremors. It was the idea of being launched into space in a long metallic tube, strapped to a chair that could fall thirty thousand feet to the ground that bothered me. Viewed in that way, I didn't think my fears unreasonable. Nothing paralleled airline travel for claustrophobia or a sense that one was being exposed to three hundred viruses simultaneously, all compliments of the airline ventilation system. I carried the fake stone in my bra so I could get to it quickly if it came down to my life or the stone.