Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun Page 18

  Detective White scratched his head, obviously sorry we'd brought this high-profile Hollywood mess to his division.

  "Where was the gun you say he always carried in the gym bag?" White asked us.

  "We don't know that," I said.

  Detective White seemed pressured, if one could judge by the sweat rings under his neatly pressed shirt. "Marathon is a huge studio and it employs thousands of people. To tarnish a company and its management like this, you need hard evidence. What you've got would make a good TV show, but it doesn't make an arrest. Rita Smith's death is on the books as a robbery homicide. Talbot had a heart attack. Now you're telling me all these people were murdered by a bunch of studio executives who needed to attract stars at any cost. That's not a motive. That's the problem half a dozen studios out here have: attracting stars at any cost. I'm sorry, but it's not enough."

  I told the detective I thought Spider Eye should be questioned about the possibility of his having been sent to Talbot's house as a hit man and not a burglar.

  "Maybe even do a little checking on his background in South America to see if hit man comes up on his resume," I said, only half joking. I could tell from White's expression that none of what I was suggesting was on his to-do list.

  Callie stood up, letting me know it was time to cut my losses. "I think we should go to Cedars," Callie whispered, "and talk to Spider Eye ourselves."

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Outside hospital room 6632, I whispered for Callie to stand guard. "He's staying in a very nice hospital room. Must have good insurance," I quipped.

  "Maybe the studio takes good care of its own," Callie replied.

  I walked slowly up to the bed where Spider Eye lay recuperating from his gunshot wound. He looked a lot less terrifying stretched out with a large hole in him. He'd been hit in the back and was obviously on heavy medication for the pain. Helpless, Spider Eye looked up and saw me standing in the room. I thought he'd need a transfusion to bring back his color. He started to yell for someone, but I put my hand over his mouth. He looked as if he thought I'd come to finish the job.

  "Spi-dah, Spi-dah, Spi-dah." I said it with the inflection Cary Grant had used when he spoke Judy Garland's name. "You try to kill me and my friend for no reason. Now, I can kill you, or you can talk to me. I want to know who hired you. I will lift my hand off your mouth, and you will say two words. The man's name. If you say any other words, I will pull my gun out and I will kill you. Are you ready?"

  He nodded. I removed my hand, and he tried to call for help. I clamped my hand over his mouth and pulled the gun out of my pocket, tapping him on the forehead with the barrel in a manner that would not have been very painful to a healthy person but did nothing to improve Spider Eye's condition. He moaned.

  "Now we're going to try it again, only this time, notice that I have the gun under your throat. Who hired you?"

  "Talbot," he muttered.

  "Talbot's dead," I said.

  "Talbot." His eyes pleaded with me to believe him.

  Callie stuck her head in the door and said a doctor was coming.

  "Keep this visit just between us," I said.

  Callie and I beat a hasty retreat down the hallway.

  I told Callie that Spider Eye said Talbot hired him, so maybe Talbot was involved after all. But Talbot was dead, so why didn't everything come to a halt?

  "Let's go wake Bare up and ask her."

  It was nearly midnight when we knocked on Barrett's front door. She answered after a few minutes. I was shocked to see the scar across her Greco-Roman features, as if the Roman statue had fallen over and cracked but the damage had not been total. She was still handsome. She opened the door slowly, with an arm that was still bandaged.

  "It's late," she said, "I really don't—" She tried to close the door onus.

  I planted one foot inside her door. "Why in the frog-friggin' hell did you turn me into a walking decoy by planting that stone on me when your stone is the one they want? A young blond hood in Tulsa is dead and his Rastafarian buddy wounded. Curtis, a would-be cop, bit the dust in Okmulgee, but they're just barnacles on the boat. We're looking for the boat. Now you either help me, or maybe the police would like to talk to you a little more in depth."

  "The day Frank Anthony bought the stones at Waterston Evers's house, he spent about an hour there going over Evers's collection. Mathers, Caruthers, and I were gone for a while looking around the grounds. I think that's when Frank took the list and put it in the stone. He knew a lot about death stones and—"

  "In the stone?" Callie interrupted.

  "Frank did his homework on death stones. Certain stones, recognized by their smoothness or eloquent carving, are death stones. Used on wealthy people—princes, kings. Expertly carved, they contain a passageway inside where the family could write a special prayer to the gods, stick it in the stone, and be sure that it would pave the way for their loved one on the other side. Frank put the list in that stone and gave it to me for safekeeping. He knew they were trying to kill him, but he was a courageous guy. He said if anything happened to him, to get the stone to the FBI."

  "So when the death stone was delivered to you at lunch..."

  "I knew Frank was dead and that someone was telling me I was marked."

  "Who was telling you?"

  "I don't know. When I got out of the hospital, I was going to get the stone back from you, but then I learned they were going to kill Rita. I had to try to stop it, and they got me. I figured if they knew I had the real stone and I was flat on my back in the hospital again, they'd come and finish me off. Self-preservation. I left you to fend them off until I could get out."

  "You're out, but apparently coming forward and talking to the authorities has kind of slipped your mind," I said sarcastically.

  "Did you take the real stone from my house? Merika says you were here."

  "Yes and yes," I said.

  "Good, because I want nothing more to do with this!" Barrett closed the door, and I could hear the dead bolt slide shut.

  That night at home, I was working on another script, trying to take my mind off the Marathon mess that I'd now almost grown accustomed to, like an annoying rash. Elmo had his huge jowls resting on my bare foot, and his big floppy, soft lips were comforting.

  "I missed you, Elmo," I told him, and he sighed, letting the full weight of his head sink onto my foot, confirming he'd missed me too.

  Callie smiled at us and drank her tea. She continued to stare at the photo she'd taken from Talbot's house and absently twirled the last remaining death stone, obtained from Barrett's tea canister, around and around on the coffee table.

  "No seams," she said of the stone. "How could a note for the dead get put in this stone?"

  "Maybe the note is somehow written on it," I said absently.

  "How's your lip?" She reached up and gently touched it with her fingertips.

  "Stitches dissolved. All is well."

  She leaned in to take a look and then gently kissed me. "Does that hurt?"

  "No, it feels good," I breathed, as she took the script out of my hands and tossed it onto the couch.

  "Now is this a sympathy thing?" I whispered.

  "This is an I'm-crazy-about-you thing and I-thought-I'd-lost-you thing." She slipped my shorts and T-shirt off me and shrugged off her own.

  "My favorite things." I pulled her onto the couch and we lay wrapped in one another's arms. I reached down her small, firm thighs and rested my hand between her legs. I was void of expectation, wanting only to be near her. I closed my eyes as she snuggled closer and slid gently onto my fingers, allowing me inside her. I held my breath, not wanting to want, but that was impossible. She clutched me more tightly now, uttering soft sounds of pleasure, and began slowly pressing her body into mine. Blood rushed to my groin and to my head in sudden recognition of this moment, and my mouth devoured her, creating a wet, hot, rhythmic kissing that matched the rhythm of our bodies. Her fingers dug into me, as if she were afraid I'd let go of her bef
ore she had let go. The heat from our bodies was so intense that we were wet inside and out; her skin hydroplaned across mine, arousing in both of us a frenzy that was out of control. Unable to hold back any longer, Callie stiffened and thrust herself into climax, moaning wildly and collapsing against me, her damp hair lying on my pounding chest as I kissed the back of her neck.

  "That was phenomenal," I said.

  She began to cry softly.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," she said.

  "It doesn't seem like nothing." I wiped away her tears. "That was magical."

  She held me tighter, her arms encircling my waist, and said nothing for a long time.

  "Can you talk to me a little bit?" I asked.

  "It's just.. .I don't know how to describe it..." She broke off the words and became quiet again. "It's as if I kept this coin—this gold coin—like the currency of my resolve, and I wouldn't spend it on anyone until I knew that person was worth it. Then I met you..." She stopped and I buried my lips in her hair, holding her, smelling her, touching her, and waiting. "Then I met you, and I knew that you would take care of me, of my love and my emotions. I made a decision to give myself to you physically, but more importantly, to give myself to you emotionally. When you're physically naked, your body is exposed. When you're emotionally naked, your soul is exposed. And there is nothing more vulnerable than that."

  And suddenly, I felt something deep inside me shift ever so slightly. As if there had been an energy transfer of sorts between us that even I could feel. She had entrusted me with her vulnerability, the most fragile part of herself, trusted that I would do my best not to hurt her—me, the most jaded, blunt, sarcastic of people—entrusted with her, the most loving, joyous, and light-filled person. My job was not to dim the light, but to give it space to glow. And what if I fail at that? Callie was afraid, on the front end, to give it up, but I'm afraid on the back end.

  I sucked in my breath and said, "I'm not really what you deserve, Callie. You're so pure and trusting and cosmic, and I'm just.. .not. You saved yourself for this perfect person, and I don't want you to think that's me. I don't even come near being perfect. I mean, if it's true that I was promised to you, then somebody might be playing a cosmic joke on you. I'm not ethereal, spiritual, cosmic.. .I just don't want you to expect too much. What I'm trying to say is that I don't want to disappoint you. I mean, you waited twenty years, for God's sake, and you got me? Just the surface stuff could drive you nuts: I swear, I'm moody, I eat food if it drops on the floor, and I'm on my best behavior right now! Imagine what I'm like when I'm comfortable and not trying!" I was tearing up trying to get the words out, afraid of what she would think or say.

  I saw the love dancing in her eyes. "You're right, you're not perfect.. .but I think you're perfect for me," she said gently and kissed away any further protest from my lips.

  She made love to me slowly and deliberately, maintaining eye contact, letting me know she loved me as she moved inside me with each stroke, teasing me with her luxurious kisses, and then finally laying across me, her body in rhythm with my own, in a timeless orgasmic dance that left us further soaked and sated.

  We lay in each other's arms, breaking the silence with nothing but our breathing. Had I been able, I would have merged my very being with hers, in one skin, and one soul, and one mind, so that this moment would never end.

  At dawn, I held Callie in my arms, savoring her softness and the light on her hair while Callie studied the photo of Talbot. With her other hand she stroked Elmo, who had managed to work his way into her heart and onto our bed, albeit on a separate sheet Callie laid out for him and washed daily.

  "You weren't married to Talbot for ten minutes, were you?" I asked. "You're obsessed with that photo of him."

  "It just gives off the strangest vibes," Callie said, and Elmo chimed in with a low sob. I went back to kissing her neck. I'd looked at the photo before and far preferred looking at Callie's naked body. The photo was a shot of Talbot in the foreground, his foot resting on a shovel as he broke ground on a new film archive building on the Marathon lot. In the background, a throng of people who played a role in making the building possible stood around, smiling and applauding.

  Callie got up and wandered over to a desk retrieving a magnifying glass. “Tell me who that is," she said, putting the 8x10 glossy on the bed and laying the magnifying glass over a group of faces.

  "From their uniforms, I'd say maintenance men, maybe gardeners."

  "Third guy from the left."

  I sighed and looked again, far preferring just to look at her.

  "And the guy to his left," Callie persisted.

  My jaw must have gone slack. "Spider Eye! And the guy to his left is the Rastafarian who was shot in Tulsa at the Memory Park Cemetery. My God, two rows back, it's Gigante and Curtis! Studio maintenance guys are the hit men responsible for all the attacks!"

  "Teague, do you remember when we went back to the studio guard gate, and there was this man they called over? He was a supervisor."

  "Aaaarnold," I said, imitating the guard who'd summoned him.

  "The guard said he had friends in high places. That line stuck with me, and he had this little trickle of blood on his chin. His skin was so thin you could almost read a paper through his face," Callie said. "But his upper face, his forehead, seemed okay."

  "What are you saying?"

  "My dad once told me that welders get thin skin like that from having the flame hit the lower part of their face and cheeks. If they've been doing it for years, their face is like paper. That guy was welding a metal sign when we drove onto the lot."

  "He would be good with a blowtorch!" I exclaimed.

  I felt a cold ripple of excitement traverse my skin as I called the studio guard gate and asked for landscaping and maintenance. The operator said no one would be on duty until the five a.m. shift.

  "Who's on?" I asked casually, as if I knew them all.

  "Just Talbot this morning."

  "Talbot," I said casually. "You know, I always wondered if he's related to the deceased Lee Talbot."

  "Yes, ma'am, sure is. Arnold's his son," the voice replied.

  I hung up and shrieked, "Spider Eye was telling the truth. Talbot did hire him. Arnold Talbot. You were right. A man who isn't powerful but has power."

  "It's like the chart said. Combust the Son. The horary was telling us that the son was at the root of the murders, and the murders involved fire! And, oh my God, it was Cazimi—the heart of the Sun. Maybe the son had no heart when it came to his father, or maybe the father had scorched his son's heart," Callie marveled. We both sat staring at one another, knowing we had gotten to the source. Arnold Talbot was definitely the man we had to talk to. He obviously answered to Caruthers and Isaacs, and he probably did the torch work himself or deployed whoever did it. Callie and I were so nervous neither of us could sleep.

  I took the stone out to have one last look at it. "I'm feeling like things are heating up. Somebody could knock us in the head and take it. How do we protect it? There's no bank vault open at this hour."

  "If I get knocked in the head again, the last thing I'll be worried about is that stone," she said, holding out her hand for it. We missed the hand off, and the stone clattered to the tiled pavers along the hearth as we both held out breath. Callie reached down and quickly grabbed it. "Barrett's stone has a crack right across the face. Was that there before?"

  "We cracked it?" I was incredulous. "The thing makes it through fifty centuries and we crack it on my fireplace? Let me see it."

  I pulled a light over to have a closer look and used the magnifying glass to examine it. "This crack is perfect. I mean, it goes all around the edge of this petroglyph, like a diamond cutter did it," I said.

  "Let me see." Callie edged in closer to share the magnifying glass. "Teague, it's not a crack. This thing opens up, just like Barrett said. Get my fingernail file and a razorblade."

  I hustled around gathering equipment like I was working for
Dr. DeBakey as Callie kept staring under the light. When she had all the tools assembled on the coffee table, she placed the razor's edge inside the cracked line.

  "Here, hold the stone steady," she ordered. "I need something to tap the end of the razor. Never mind, I'll use the end of this file to tap it. No wonder we couldn't find out how this thing opens. We were looking along its edge, expecting it to swing open like a book, when it literally breaks in half like a cracker along this hieroglyphic symbol."

  Three taps and the stone fell open into two perfectly fitting halves. We both squealed. A tiny sheet of paper jutted out of the hidden compartment, the writing so precise and so minute, we had to put it under the magnifying glass.

  "Will you look at this," I breathed. "We have the list, and Hank Caruthers is right at the top. Why all this killing because you're on a list made by a dead guy who couldn't testify against you anyway?" I wondered.

  "It's not just names," Callie said. "Safety deposit box number 737 at the B.H. bank, box combination 24-57-16-32. Records verifying embezzlement."

  "So Caruthers needs to destroy those records," I said.

  "We should make a copy of this note and hide it in the house, so it's safe while we're gone." Callie scanned the room.

  "They tore this place apart looking for the stone. They could break in again and maybe beat us to the bank. It's safer to keep it with us," I said and handed it to her.

  "I can't wait for the day when the only thing I have on me that someone wants is a great tan," Callie sighed.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  At four a.m. I kissed Elmo goodbye and told him to "guard the joint and think good thoughts." Callie and I drove by the North Hollywood Hotel and loaded half a dozen hotel planters into the backseat of the Jeep, Callie doing the bulk of the lifting because my ribs were still killing me. Callie insisted we call the motel office later and pay for them. Theft was bad karma. I promised her we'd take care of it. It was just that no nurseries were open at this hour.