The Mountains Bow Down (49 page)

“Milo,” Jack said. “Help me out of here, would ya?”

But the action star was as wooden as when he was onscreen. “Where . . .” He struggled for words. “Where did you get that?”

“This?” Jack looked down at the studded leather. “You like it?” Since Milo wasn't helping, Jack reached over and placed his hands on the actor's wide shoulders, pulling his leg behind him. “I hate to tell you this, man. I like you. But your buddies killed your wife.”

“Now hang on,” Sparks said. “You think her suicide looks weird, and you might have a point. Something does seem a little off. But if anybody killed her it was Milo.”

Milo was breathing through his mouth. The green eyes had their usual marbled-glass quality, but beneath the vitreous surface something was cracking.

Sparks continued, “You saw what he did, choking that guy on the set?”

“It was very convincing,” I agreed.

Jack patted Milo's shoulder. “But you can't improvise, not when you're that drunk. If I recall, Sandy pulled you aside right before that scene. Choking that guy was for our benefit.”

Milo stared at the producer. “You said Martin wanted me to.

You said he would calm down if—”

“Do you want to hear the rest?” Jack asked.

“I want to know where you got that jacket.” Milo looked confused, angry. Scared. The way he looked after she died and he saw the anklet. “My wife, my wife—”

He couldn't finish.

“Webb?” Jack asked.

“That was a gift.” Milo's face crumpled. “My wife, she was a giver. She was a giver!”

Jack squeezed his shoulder. Milo turned his face away. But his sobs were loud. Drunk and lost. His wife, the expert seamstress, had sewn some of Sandy's stones into the vintage lining, covering the slight bulges with patches. Then she gave the jackets to Webb, a gift from the co-producer to the director. Welcome aboard.

I watched Larrah. Her large eyes drifted to the anklet.

“Go ahead, take it,” I said. “It's fake. Your husband has the real one, somewhere.”

Geert leaned forward, his bald head shining at Sparks like an interrogation lamp. “Where is the real one?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yah.” Geert straightened, turning to me. “The wife doesn't know about it. What did I tell you? The husband. He is always guilty.”

Larrah picked up the anklet. She rubbed her thumb over the greasy petroleum residue.

“That night,” Jack began, putting his arm around Milo, “your wife watched you flirt with the women in here. Then she went back to her cabin. Depressed and lonely. She took her Ambien, climbed into bed, and Vinnie came out of the living room closet.”

Placing a pillow over her face, the bodyguard held it there until she died. Vinnie's original plan was to hang her body over the balcony. But Sandy Sparks had come up with a better idea. He thought. Something to throw everybody off, he insisted. And later it would bring in money. He could get his benitoite back and build a new income stream.

I turned to Larrah. She wiped her fingers on a cocktail napkin.

“I want to thank you,” I said.

“What . . . for?”

“You told me your husband always tried to do too many things at once. And you told me about your mother-in-law, that she was a pain even before the ship left Seattle. I should have been listening more closely.” When I looked at her husband, his skin was slick with sweat. “The dutiful son. You called the concierge when your mom locked your dad's wallet in the safe. But they couldn't tell you when the handyman would get there. You asked them to come to Milo Carpenter's cabin first, then you would walk them down to the problem. You were having drinks in the Carpenter's cabin. You, Milo, Vinnie. And Judy.” I looked back at Larrah. “You weren't there.”

“I was getting a massage.” She said it desperately.

“The handyman knocked on the Carpenter's cabin.”

Ramazan.

A shallow and cruel man devoted to gossip rags, Ramazan immediately recognized the movie star. He gushed, got an autograph, then Sparks walked him three doors down to his parents' cabin. Ramazan opened the safe—easy, he insisted, he knew safes—and Sparks offered him a tip. But the Turk refused. It was an honor, he insisted. He wanted to help a man like Sandy Sparks. Hollywood producer. Friends with Milo Carpenter. And Ramazan confessed he, too, was a filmmaker.

“At first, I thought Vinnie was lying,” I said. “It seemed like a big risk, bringing on a stranger. And crew. But you made sure Vinnie asked Ramazan for help. Vinnie's not the sharpest knife in the drawer and he's awfully greedy. But he did finally figure out you were setting him up. And it was only a matter of time before you got rid of him too.”

After suffocating Judy, the bodyguard had wrapped her body in a blanket. When he heard a single knock at the door, he found the trash can, with a fresh liner, waiting in the hall. Placing her body inside, he tied the trash bag into a knot so nobody could see her and left. Minutes later Ramazan rolled it down the Highway, over to the Dumpsters. At that hour, the Highway was almost empty. And if anyone saw him, he was doing janitorial work.

He rode the elevator up to the Sky Bar.

Jack gave Milo's shoulder another squeeze. “Vinnie was sitting at the bar, telling you to go talk to your wife. Go make things right. What a concerned friend. And you left, ruining your alibi. And she was here, in the bar. Dead.”

Ramazan wheeled the trash can through the Sky Bar and out to the deck. On that cold wet night, he wore a cap, pulled down low, and left the trash can by the rail. After Milo walked out of the bar, Vinnie took care of business.

“Yah, loyal cruisers,” Geert said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sparks said, offended.

“You know where things are. Things like mooring lines.”

Milo didn't look like an actor anymore. His face contorted, like a man. “Sandy?”

“Give me a break, Milo,” he said, laughing. “This is like a bad movie.”

“Almost as bad as
Northern Decomposure
,” Jack said agreeably.

When I looked at Larrah, she was draining her drink. I picked up the anklet from the bar. “Are you done with this?”

She set down the drink. It clunked on the bar. “If that's fake, then—”

“Judy wore the real one. But Vinnie didn't see the anklet until he was dropping her over the rail.” Those long palazzo pants, which she favored even in pajamas, rose up on her legs, the same way they did when hours later, Geert pulled her back over the rail. “Vinnie got the clasp open, then dropped it. He didn't have time to search.” I pointed to the windows, to the sky that was neither morning nor night. “The light wasn't great. He planned to come back the next day.”

But I found it.

I looked over at Milo. “I owe you an apology, Milo.”

For once his eyes held a genuine light. I felt a pang of sadness. That feeling of seeing someone who suddenly realizes what they threw away. Judy never told him she kept some benitoite. She didn't want to humiliate her beloved husband, letting him know she needed that much collateral because of him.

Jack was right: Milo mourned for her.

“When I showed you the real one of this”—I held up the anklet—“you recognized it. Not from your wife wearing it. She kept it hidden from you, and it wasn't hard. Separate beds. You barely looked at her. And she wore those long trousers. But you saw benitoite. Did you run to Sandy? Tell him the FBI knew about the robbery, the insurance scheme?”

His head dropped. He nodded like a man with an evil hangover.

“And I showed it to Sandy too, while he bubbled away in the hot tub. The handyman must have seemed like a brilliant inspiration. The safecracker. Ramazan could steal it from Geert's safe—”

“Ach.”

“—and bring it to you.”

Larrah pointed at the anklet, forehead quivering. “But you said that's fake.”

“Right.” I handed it to her. “And it belongs to you.”

“The
fake
?”

“Yes. He had it made for you, years ago. Apparently he doesn't like sharing his benitoite with anyone. Your fake was with the stolen jewelry. The real one was with the benitoite. And I'm guessing all your jewelry has come back after the robbery?”

She looked around the bar. She seemed to want another drink.

Sparks laughed again. “This is incredible.”

Jack agreed. “But if you wrote movies this good, you wouldn't be broke.”

“You're broke?” Larrah asked.

“Vinnie,” Sparks said. “That's your problem, right there. Vinnie told you this? The guy's a Neanderthal. He killed her and he belongs in jail.”

“He's going,” Jack said. “But the Neanderthal was smart enough to cut a plea deal.”

I wanted to believe the tears hanging in Milo's eyes. Just like I wanted to believe that inscription inside the jewelry box. He called Judy his “real gem.” But he was a philanderer, they were divorcing, and only now did I understand the point. Gratitude. It was a thankyou note. Judy got him the movie, staging the robbery.

I finished my Coke, slurping down to the bottom because it had been a very long day. When I climbed off the bar stool, the Ninjas stepped forward. Jack performed the honors, taking evident pleasure in uttering the names.

“Sandy Sparks, also known as Lysander Sparks, also known as Lysander Butz, and as a kid probably known as Sandy Butz, you are under arrest for the contract killing of Judy Carpenter.”

“You're kidding.” The smile was razor thin.

“You are also under arrest for grand larceny, insurance fraud, lying to federal and state law enforcement, transporting stolen goods across state lines—”

“I didn't—” He stopped.

“Right.” I nodded. “Judy transported the benitoite.”

As Jack continued, I watched Larrah. Her bleary brain was bumping against reality, and square pegs were jabbing round holes, nothing fitting together.

Not to her liking, at least.

“Oh, Sandy!” she cried. “How
could
you?”

He ignored her.

She reached up, grabbing her flumey hair. “What—have—you— done?”

“You're a bad actress.” I smiled. “But shrewd.” I remembered her onstage in Pharaoh's Tomb, telling my aunt that none of the crystals were working. And I recalled those ghost words on the bathroom mirror. Finally, I'd figured out what was spelled. Two words. Beginning with C and ending in KS.

Charlotte's rocks.

Larrah drew back, sucking in air. Her clavicle looked like a clothes hanger. “I was trying to get my role right.”

“Keep trying,” I said.

Geert offered handcuffs, Jack clamped them on Sandy's wrists. The producer hunched over his paunch, his head bowed. Not from shame. Shame wasn't in this man's repertoire.

“Was there even film in the camera?” Jack wanted to know.

But he didn't get answer.

Lysander Butz had taken the Fifth.

Chapter Forty-four

O
n the top deck, where I stood five days ago as the ship pulled into and out of Ketchikan, I ran my fingers over the teak rail. Beads of morning dew slipped off the varnish like liquid pearls, splashing into the ocean below, disappearing without a trace.

Seattle's dock was choked with yellow cabs that formed a golden horseshoe. Climbing out of the taxis, toting suitcases, people hurried for the US customs building; and moments later passengers rushed off the cruise ship, dropping into the cabs with that postvacation weariness, tired but satisfied.

I forced myself to scan the other vehicles.

The unmarked van made my eyes burn.

It was white and was parked beside an EMT vehicle. The emergency wagon was there last week, when we boarded the ship. The standard precaution, in case someone got hurt. But this van was for a special case.

My mother.

I finally agreed with the doctor: there was no other choice, not if I loved her.

Reaching down to my belt, I unclipped my cell phone and dialed a local number, waiting for Allen McLeod to pick up. It was 8:43 am Sunday morning.

“Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother.”

“You're not bothering, Harmon. I'm stuck in my car waiting for a tow.” He described his drive to church this morning, which ended when another car ran a red light and smashed into McLeod's front end. “The guy totally blind-sighted me.”

Malaprop as oxymoron. It was impressive. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but I can't move the car, front wheel's destroyed.” He offered a prodigious sigh. “Was something wrong with the LAPD information?”

“No, sir. That helped quite a bit. Thank you.” I told him we were working with Washington State Patrol and taking several people into custody later this morning.

“Good,” he said. “But my wife's here, wondering. So I have to ask. The actor?”

“Milo Carpenter didn't kill his wife. But he did some really stupid things.”

“Well, he's a movie star, what do you expect?”

I stared down at the dock. The white van pulled forward, then backed up to the gangway.

“Sir, did you say there's a position open in the Seattle unit?”

“I was just kidding, Harmon.”

“Oh.”

“You don't owe me a favor. I like helping you out. Really.”

There was a significant pause. I watched the man climb out of the white van. He wore a white uniform—white van, white uniform, probably white walls where she was going. He walked to the back of the vehicle and opened the barn doors, waiting.

“Actually, sir, I'd be interested in hearing about it.”

“Really? You're sure?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, that's what I want to hear. This assignment isn't for just anybody, Harmon.” He began mumbling something, then said, “Okay, look, I have to go. Tow truck's here. Call me first thing tomorrow.”