A Passing Curse (2011) (23 page)

“You enjoyed the view?”

“There’s a lot to see.”

“I spend hours alone here,” Ajax said, “looking at the ocean. Looking at eternity. It fortifies me. It relaxes me.”

Ajax poured full glasses. Reese drank half. “You have any other ideas about Father Ramon? Besides your time warp theory?”

Ajax moved to the windows, holding his glass in front of him without drinking. “When the Spanish came they disrupted a culture that had flourished without incident for fifty centuries. The Spanish married the Indians and formed families, Catholic families, the plan being to swell Church ranks through assimilation. The Spanish wanted gold, the Church wanted souls. The Protestants, the English and Americans, did not believe in assimilation. They simply killed the Indians and took their land. Manifest destiny was the term.

“The Spanish, though kinder and gentler conquerors than the English, could be harsh. If the natives did not take to their doctrine, they were done away with. That is, if the various European diseases did not kill them first. Am I boring you?”

“Miss Webber has already filled my head with local history.”

“Miss Webber.” Ajax licked his lips and inhaled slightly. “A sublime creature. Very special. A lovely girl. And so alive.” To underscore his admiration, Ajax threw a kiss from his lips to the room with enough flourish to make Reese sick.

“I’m not here to discuss Rusty Webber,” he said, knowing he sounded strangely jealous, regretting it immediately when Ajax looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly, sensing there was something between him and the archeologist.

“Would it surprise you to know,” Ajax purred, “that she possesses the capacity to kill? The loveliest things are like that, they seduce and then they kill. Danger is their most delicious attraction. You throw yourself on the rocks of their beauty.”

He was sick of Ajax’s poetry. “Anyone can kill.”

“Even me?”

“You confessing?”

Ajax laughed and shook his head. He seemed to think himself a real card, a regular madcap. “May I finish? The Coastal tribes were simple, and like most simple people their beliefs were strong. They believed in any number of spirits, demons, minor gods. When the Indians were killed off by the Spanish it was said that one of these demons would resurrect itself and take revenge.”

Reese finished off the glass. “Demons?”

“On the other hand, Father Ramon was a catamite. Perhaps his death was more a temporal matter. You mentioned a whip was involved?”

“Catamite?”

“I’ve stretched the definition, I suppose. The whip was his way of punishing himself. Let’s say that Ramon was a student of buggerism.”

“There’s a word you don’t hear everyday.” He’d said nothing about the whip. Ajax had probably received the entire case history from the Chief. Then again Ajax might be tipping his hand, bragging that he’d killed Ramon and there was damn little that he could do about it. “You think Ramon was killed having sex?” He’d thought about it, the sex angle, but disregarded it as too pat. He wasn’t even sure that Ramon had been penetrated or if any semen had been found. And then there was the logistics of hefting a three hundred pound man, a little too much work when you were having fun.

“The man was a priest.”

“So, in your opinion, Ramon was either killed by demons or perverts.” He got up. So much for the billionaire. He hadn’t rattled him and he was tired of listening to him. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Ajax nodded serenely. “Don’t believe everything you hear about me.” The voice floated over him as he walked to the door. “When you pass the painting, notice the female with the sword. It is Gentileschi herself, a painter’s self-portrait. A feminist of her time, she brought rape charges against the man in the painting. He was a fellow painter, a well known womanizer, but never a rapist. No one knows what happened at the trial, lost to the ages, but of the man, well, the painting speaks for itself.”

He studied the painting. The face could have been Ajax. The face of Gentileschi, the woman, he’d seen not too long ago. “It’s you,” he turned and said. “The rapist.”

“I would like to think I’m better looking. And he was no rapist.”

“Richard Lamb’s victims were raven haired.” He looked back at the painter, Gentileschi, sword held high, it looked a lot like Melissa Cunningham, the last victim, her eyes burning, urging him on.

“Like Gentileschi?” Ajax said.

“You hated her.”

“The fellow painter, the man depicted as Holoferness, was ruined by her charges.” Ajax’s face screwed in a notch. His voice rose. The most emotion Reese had seen from him. “He was tortured - they broke his bones with rocks - and if he had not escaped from jail, he would have been killed.”

“And you’re still mad about it?”

“She accuses a fellow painter of rape and then cuts his head off for everyone to see?” Ajax folded his hands, calm again. “That was many lifetimes ago. Why should I care?”

“Maybe you thought it was ironical or witty to have Homer Wermels kill Gentileschi look-a-likes, again and again?”

“A stunning hypothesis, but implausible,” Ajax said and shook his finger in his direction, chiding him. “If you wait by the river long enough, Reese, things will float by twice. You may think that the water is different, but it is not.”

He walked out the door and down the hall, wondering why it bothered him so much that Ajax seemed desperately in love with Rusty. It bothered him even more than the possibility that Ajax might be a lot older than he looked.

Ajax opened the desk drawer and removed the cross. The small box containing his toy was gone. He slipped the chain over his neck. He saw his reflection in the slanting panes of glass, larger than life, his specter widening over the ground below. That was it, exactly. His spirit covered the land. He was everywhere. He moved, his reflection covered the earth. He twirled. The cross rose from his chest. He was pure. He was energy. He was life. He glided to the cardboard box, saw the slight nail mark, the missing vial, and smiled. Cummings’ words flashed through his mind - How do you like your blue-eyed boy, Mr. Death?

16

After Reese drove back to his apartment and parked, he saw the young and earnest officer Thomkins sitting on the front bumper of a dilapidated black and white Ford parked at the curb. Thomkins was maybe old enough to vote, he thought. His uniform was a size too large. He was growing a wisp of a red mustache for authority.

Thomkins walked up and told him the Chief had okayed his request to witness the autopsies of Cheevy and Father Ramon. Thomkins was to drive him.

While Thomkins waited, he went inside and checked his answering machine. Two messages. Carsabi wanted him to call. Rusty wanted him to meet her in her room at five. Her voice was throaty and sexy. He wanted to jump.

He understood Ajax’s obsession with her. He was a little obsessed with the archeologist himself. And why had Ajax lectured him on her killing abilities? Was he accusing her of murdering Ramon? She was a ready-made patsy. Her arguing with Ramon. Her sickle at the murder scene. He was sure it was hers, just as he was sure that the Chief would try to hang the murder on her. But she did not have much to worry about. Not with Ajax in her corner.

He went over the last part of his meeting with Ajax and his bizarre rambling about a long dead painter. Did Ajax believe that the Richard Lamb killings were tied to a medieval painter or was Ajax jerking his chain? And why had he referred to the Gentileschi incident as being many lifetimes ago instead of many years? And the speck of blood. Had that been a mistake or chum to rouse his interest? And for what reason?

He dialed the familiar number. Carsabi answered on the second ring. After the initial greetings, Reese said, half-jokingly, “I’m not coming back, if that’s why you called.”

“It’s about Hernandez.”

“He finally flipped out and killed someone?” Reese opened the small box he’d stolen. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with Hernandez for a few days.

“He’s missing,” Carsabi said.

“Why tell me? I haven’t seen him.” The hollow finger was made from a tough, flesh-colored plastic, meant to slip over a real finger. A curved steel talon, razor sharp, and spring loaded, was tucked into the fingertip. From five feet, it would look like a real finger.

“You might. He told his squad commander he had hard evidence you murdered Richard Lamb in cold blood, and he was heading for Santa Marina to see you about it.”

“To arrest me?” He put the phone between his ear and shoulder. He slipped the plastic finger over his index finger. The plastic was flexible and fit tightly. He whipped his finger down, flicking it, causing the talon to whip out. Nasty.

“Not that. He thinks your next victim might be Ajax Rasmussen, the governor’s buddy who just happens to live in Santa Marina. He’s big-time connected, politically, and Hernandez wants to make points saving Rasmussen’s ass from you is what I heard.”

“I forgot,” Reese said. “Why am I killing Rasmussen?”

“Hernandez claims you think Rasmussen had something to do with the Anaheim Vampire, with Richard Lamb. Hernandez has been reading your old files, been having regular brainstorms, telling everyone you’re obsessed with proving Rasmussen was telling Richard Lamb what to do.”

He blocked out Carsabi’s voice and inspected Ajax’s little toy. Whoever had made the finger had even added a little dirt beneath the plastic fingernail. “Hernandez is missing?”

“He told everyone that he was going to Santa Marina to confront you.”

“You already told me that.” He re-cocked the finger. It was too well made to be sold at a gag shop. He guessed the talon was surgical steel, probably made in Switzerland.

“Three days he’s missing,” Carsabi said.

“You’re asking me because he’s missing and I’m supposedly his last appointment?” Reese asked.

“That doesn’t sound like you trust me. Should I be mad?”

“He was supposed to be back at his desk three days ago,” Carsabi said. “That’s a long time. I start worrying when a man’s that late.”

It was the second time in a week that he was the last person to see someone alive, if you disregarded that both victims were on their way to see Ajax. And was Hernandez a victim or out on a jag? He put the finger in his dresser. “He’s probably drunk. Shacked up somewhere. Didn’t he go missing for a week last year and the Mexican policia had him locked up on drunk and mayhem charges.”

“This just seems different,” Carsabi said. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. And in case you see him, tell him to call me. You never told me why you picked Santa Marina.”

“It’s the climate and it’s small,” Reese said, wondering if he should mention the two killings, but deciding against it. He did not need Carsabi interfering. He did not need Carsabi second guessing him. “I got tired of all those people.”

“It’s also where Richard Lamb grew up,” Carsabi said, scolding him. “The Anaheim Vampire case is closed. I don’t care what everyone is saying. You got the right guy. If I even thought this Rasmussen guy was guilty of anything, I’d back you on this, but the case is closed.”

“I’m retired, Steve. It’s that simple. I like it here.”

“Don’t lie to me, Reese. You’re up there sticking your nose into something, mindlessly fucking around when I can get you a job as chief of security at one of these software companies in the Valley. The pay’s good….”

“It’s subtle,” he said, irritated now because he’d already told Carsabi he wanted nothing to do with being a rent-a-cop, a door knob shaker, no matter how well it paid. “Santa Marina is subtle. That’s why I moved here. I can relax.” In fact, Ajax Rasmussen might be one of the subtlest killers he’d known.

Before Reese hung up, they spoke briefly about how the Captain wished he were retired and fucking off like Reese. He hadn’t told Carsabi that he’d seen Hernandez earlier because it might bring more police and that was the last thing he needed. He did not want to cloud the water Ajax was swimming in. He wanted a clear shot. Besides, Hernandez could take care of himself. He had three pistols and a hair-trigger temper. He wouldn’t be a push-over like Cheevy and Father Ramon. Anyway, Reese thought, I warned him. Besides, it seemed early in the game for Ajax to be killing a cop.

He drank a beer and glanced outside. It was late afternoon. So far, a busy day. Outside, Thomkins was looking from his watch to the apartment. It struck him as crazy how Ajax had discussed Gentileschi as if she were still alive. But what bothered him even more was the billionaire’s obsession with Rusty.

Thomkins drove the rusty sedan like it was a tractor. The two-way radio had been gutted. The security grill between the front and back seat had holes you could slip your head through. The seats had been duct taped.

“It’s the back-up patrol car,” Thomkins said. Reese shrugged and hit the seat to re-stick a piece of silver tape that was coming loose.

“Your car’s in the shop?”

“This is my car,” Thomkins admitted. “The one I’m assigned. The medical examiner will start the autopsy at four,” Thomkins said. “We haven’t had a murder in ten years, and that was only a heart attack that we thought was a murder, and now we have two - bam - you been to many autopsies, Reese?”

“My share,” he said, and, remembering what Hannah Everett had told him, added, “You’ve had a few missing persons lately. I want reports on each case going back twelve months. I want pictures, witness statements.”

“I’ll check with the Chief.”

“Check with who you want. Just get me the reports. And Thomkins, if it was a heart attack then it wasn’t a murder, so you haven’t had a murder in over ten years or maybe twenty.”

“True.”

“A very quiet town.”

“It’s that, alright,” Thomkins said.

They walked down a corridor of faded linoleum and bare light bulbs hanging from gray metal shades and through a blue metal door stenciled, MORGUE.

Green tile, brightly glazed, went halfway up the walls, edging six stainless steel doors. Like stone fountains, twin marble pedestals sprouted from the floor. The marble autopsy tables belonged in a museum. Stainless steel had been the vogue for fifty years. Hanging from the ceiling, a mechanical arm held a Nikon camera.