Wealthy investors in Sedona, Arizona, are dropping like flies-more accurately, lead weights. They are falling down staircases and off mountainsides, decks, and hiking trails. With so many similar "accidents," the victims had to have been pushed. Other than their wealth and weakness for beautiful young women, what the falling men had in common was a financial interest in Sedona Landing, a historic hotel in Oak Creek Village. They also shared a long history with the chief investor, billionaire Axel Ackerman. Fearing that he too will plunge to his death, Ackerman hires Matt Murdock and Helene Steinbeck to investigate. During his climb to the top of the heap, Ackerman crushed scores of rivals and broke many hearts. The culling of his "Crew" of investors is clearly personal. So who among this crowded field of enemies would orchestrate such a byzantine scheme of revenge? To keep their client safe, Matt and Helene will have to be on their best game. Too bad their last case in Taos took such a heavy toll, particularly on Helene, and caused a rift in their fragile bond.
Wealthy investors in Sedona, Arizona, are dropping like flies-more accurately, lead weights. They are falling down staircases and off mountainsides, decks, and hiking trails. With so many similar "accidents," the victims had to have been pushed. Other than their wealth and weakness for beautiful young women, what the falling men had in common was a financial interest in Sedona Landing, a historic hotel in Oak Creek Village. They also shared a long history with the chief investor, billionaire Axel Ackerman. Fearing that he too will plunge to his death, Ackerman hires Matt Murdock and Helene Steinbeck to investigate. During his climb to the top of the heap, Ackerman crushed scores of rivals and broke many hearts. The culling of his "Crew" of investors is clearly personal. So who among this crowded field of enemies would orchestrate such a byzantine scheme of revenge? To keep their client safe, Matt and Helene will have to be on their best game. Too bad their last case in Taos took such a heavy toll, particularly on Helene, and caused a rift in their fragile bond.
Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Wealthy investors in Sedona, Arizona, are dropping like flies-more accurately, lead weights. They are falling down staircases and off mountainsides, decks, and hiking trails. With so many similar "accidents," the victims had to have been pushed. Other than their wealth and weakness for beautiful young women, what the falling men had in common was a financial interest in Sedona Landing, a historic hotel in Oak Creek Village. They also shared a long history with the chief investor, billionaire Axel Ackerman. Fearing that he too will plunge to his death, Ackerman hires Matt Murdock and Helene Steinbeck to investigate. During his climb to the top of the heap, Ackerman crushed scores of rivals and broke many hearts. The culling of his "Crew" of investors is clearly personal. So who among this crowded field of enemies would orchestrate such a byzantine scheme of revenge? To keep their client safe, Matt and Helene will have to be on their best game. Too bad their last case in Taos took such a heavy toll, particularly on Helene, and caused a rift in their fragile bond.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781603813372 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Camel Press |
| Publication date: | 12/15/2015 |
| Series: | Matt Murdock Murder Mystery , #7 |
| Pages: | 366 |
| Sales rank: | 224,058 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.91(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
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 2Helene 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 was 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?"
"They fell, both of them."
"Did you get police reports?" Helene said.
"Both deaths were ruled accidental."
"But you have this feeling, right?"
"More like an evil foreboding," Giselle said. "Something to do with this old hotel, its aura — like a shadow falling across your grave."
Helene saw movement.
Ackerman was out of the pool, being helped into his robe by a black man in a turtleneck sweater. The man wore a shoulder holster. His shaved head reflected the light. Giselle Roux identified him as Bruno Hoff.
Ackerman walked over, carrying a copy of Helene's book.
"Miss Steinbeck, your fame precedes you. I am reading your book. It would be an honor to own your autograph."
Up close, Axel Ackerman did not look so old, or so bony. His eyes were alive, filled with fire. The bald head was tanned and smooth and powerful. A man born to be king.
He had a beak nose and a winning smile that said he could buy and sell you before you knew what was happening. His teeth were yellow, his lips sensual.
"Is this for you?"
"Yes. To Axel, from Helene. And the date."
Helene signed his copy of her book. Her hand was jittery. This guy wanted her, this old person, bald and grinning, wanted to fuck her. She handed the book back. He read her words, nodded, held out his hand.
"Giselle was supposed to introduce us. I'm Axel Ackerman."
"I'm Helene Steinbeck."
His hand was big and warm, laced with power. He did not squeeze too hard. She was shaking hands with a billion dollars. She had met millionaires before, but Ackerman was her first billionaire. His hand let her go. She felt short of breath. He asked what she thought about the contract.
"Enough money to buy you for twenty-four hours?" he said.
"What about Murdock," Helene said. "We're a team. Where's his name?"
A shadow crossed Ackerman's eyes. He told Giselle to pencil Murdock in. She used a fancy fountain pen to add Murdock's name to the contract. Ackerman scribbled, turned to Helene.
"I heard your man was moonlighting, helping out our beleaguered hotel security boys."
"He likes to stay busy."
"But you did the Taos killings, right — no help from him?"
"Murdock was right there, backing me up," Helene said.
"Let's talk about the contract."
"Not much to discuss," Ackerman said. "I'm buying your combined skills — detection and protection — for twenty-four hours. I expect you to go through the motions, digging up dirt on my dead friends, but there's nothing there. Accidents happen."
"They both fell, right?"
"Will Tyler fell at twilight — highball time. Milt Coolidge fell because he had a trick knee. You got one drunk and one cripple, case solved."
Giselle Roux broke in, "Did you check with Walter?"
"I knocked on the goddamn door," Ackerman said. "No answer. Probably got a floozie in there. Or maybe two."
"Who's Walter?" Helene said.
"One of our investors," Giselle said. "In the money pool. He's staying in 900, your floor, the suite at the other end."
"His name is Walt Findlay," Ackerman said. "Maybe you saw him around. He's tanned, fit, looks like a Beach Boy. Always on the prowl. His motto is love 'em and leave 'em."
"Walter thinks like a teenager," Giselle said. "He has three ex- wives ... that we know of."
"Let's have breakfast," Ackerman said. "You, me, Walt Findlay if we can rouse him, your Mr. Detective man. Eight-ish. You can guard my ancient body while in the midst of detecting, to satisfy Giselle. I'm halfway through your true-crime tome. I started at midpoint ... anything in the first half?"
"The author fell in love," Helene said.
"I love writers, the way they conjure."
Ackerman repeated his invitation to breakfast, eight o'clock, the Bell Rock Bistro, his personal table. The wait staff would know.
Helene watched him walk off, joined by Bruno, who carried a cellphone and a white sports bag with red markings.
Giselle handed over a purple binder. A label on the cover said: POLICE REPORTS, ETC. Giselle smiled, touched Helene's shoulder — the touch of a friend, or maybe not.
"Have fun at breakfast."
Helene Steinbeck wanted to say no.
She wanted to back off, no way, not me, not now, no security work, no bodyguarding a randy, skinny-legged old man.
Helene was here in the Sedona area for some R&R, a quiet place that was not Taos. A place in the sun where there was safety, peace, time with Murdock, time to work on their relationship. They had been here six days. Helene was feeling better. Her feet were healing, and she could walk a whole mile without pain.
Helene was shivering. Time for a shower. Time to face Murdock. Things were edgy between them. How would Murdock react? Hey, sweetie, I found a job for you, no killing, fill up your days so I can get some work done — okay?
CHAPTER 3Murdock was up, showered, wearing jeans and a khaki shirt, when Helene came back from her swim. Her face was lit with color; Murdock smelled a secret. He wanted a hug, a kiss, a sign that things were okay. She handed him a purple binder that said POLICE REPORT. She looked beautiful, determined.
He had eggs in a bowl, muffins from Red Rock Coffee, fruit from the kitchen, bacon sizzling in the pan. Helene's camera sat on the work table, next to her laptop, her notes for the workshop, her pile of manuscript. At the bathroom door, she told him they had a breakfast date.
"Who with?"
"Giselle Roux," she said, "and a billionaire remodeler, and someone named Findlay."
"The bacon is half done," he said.
"I need you on this," she said. "And I can't eat the bacon. Remember?"
She wore the robe into the bathroom. The door was ajar; he saw skin. The door closed, shutting Murdock out. He finished cooking the bacon, laid it out in strips on a paper towel. The shower turned off. He imagined her naked, water drops on skin. He sat at the table studying the purple binder.
Two police reports, two dead guys. William Tyler died on Fire Island when he fell off a deck. Horace Coolidge died in Palm Desert when he fell on a hiking trail. Tyler died in August, Coolidge in September. Both men were in their sixties. A computer print-out added three more names: Findlay, Delaplane, and Hawthorne — no dates of death.
Helene came out wearing the robe, running a comb through shiny black hair, holding a brown envelope. Her feet were bare, her curves shaping the robe to her naked body. Her eyes were still sad. They had not made love since Taos. The envelope contained a contract and five thousand dollars — 51 hundred-dollar bills for 24 hours of security work. Two names were printed, Ackerman and Helene Steinbeck. Murdock's name was written in longhand, an afterthought.
"What do you think?"
"Good money," Murdock said. "Three-fifty a minute, two hundred eight an hour ... and change."
"I want us to sign it."
"What about the book, the workshop?"
"I was hoping we could share the load ... solve this thing before midnight."
"Two accidents in two fancy places?" Murdock said.
She was standing beside him, combing her hair. He felt her body heat through the robe. Her feet still had some tan. Her knee looked smooth. He wanted to show her the photo of Cathedral Rock in the dark. Wanted to know her thoughts. Wanted them to touch, on purpose.
"Is this Ackerman guy the billionaire remodeler?"
"Yes."
"What's he like?"
"Very down home," Helene said. "Mid-seventies, tough, still talks with a tiny Texas twang. He has yellow eyes."
"Could you feel the throb of big money?"
"If you Google him while I get dressed," Helene said, "we'll know more."
"These two dead guys, were they bankers?"
"How did you know that?"
"Investment banking?" Murdock said. "Private equity?"
"Something to ask at breakfast," Helene said.
She left him alone. He re-read the contract, felt the old tingle — a case to solve, a thread to follow. They had come to Sedona to escape Taos, to erase the memories of dead girls. They had come to Oak Creek Village, Sedona's bedroom community at the edge of Highway 179, lured by an invitation from Giselle Roux. Before they arrived in the village, Helene had researched the vortices of Sedona. Tourists came from all over the world to visit their favorite vortex. The testimonials sounded religious. Swirl in a vortex and get reborn. Get recharged, re-centered, released from your earth-bound servitude.
Helene loved the pool. Murdock killed time helping out at Sedona Landing, a hotel steeped in history. Helene's nightmares had stopped. She got busy with her new book. They had swapped serious kissing for brief hugs and the tentative pressing of cheeks. This fancy new job, security for a crazy billionaire, was one more activity to keep them in this limbo, together-apart.
Murdock ate a slice of bacon. It tasted flat, greasy, filled with unhealth. He chewed as he studied the contract, feeling the pull of big money. A gulf yawned between himself and this guy Ackerman. Murdock still needed Helene's take on the midnight photo. He dumped the bacon into the trash.
CHAPTER 4Axel Ackerman was bald and tanned, dressed like a tennis bum — a worn T-shirt, a beat-up cable knit sweater. His handshake was solid, like a straight-shooter's. Even bent by age, the guy still stood over six feet. Murdock was impressed, his first billionaire up close. Yellow eyes, a good laugh, a winner's smile. Ackerman introduced Bruno, a solid black dude in a white turtleneck, maybe sixty, packing a shoulder rig under a blue jacket, rolling a white canvas tennis bag, red and black stripes, with bulgy outside pockets.
Bruno welcomed Murdock aboard. His hand was warm, with that weight-room firmness that turns a fist into concrete. Bruno's smile was weary; you could tell he needed sleep. He yawned, asked to be excused, reminded Ackerman about grease and gas, and left for his nap.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Murdock Rocks Sedona"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Robert J. Ray.
Excerpted by permission of Coffeetown Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.