Naked Came The Phoenix (25 page)

"You know we've got a team going through all the security videos?"

Vince nodded.

"Well, one of the guys brought me this tape from the camera on the corner of the main building near the path to the lake. It's timed just before the attack on Phyllis Talmadge. You can see Ms. Talmadge walking into range and almost bumping into King David and Raoul de Vries. They've got their backs to the camera, but they're obviously deep in conversation. Then Howard Fondulac comes up behind Ms. Talmadge and listens in while she's talking to them." He paused expectantly, but his boss seemed more frustrated than excited by the news.

"Damn," Vince said. "Why the hell don't they have audio on these tapes?"

"Sir, we don't need audio," Mike replied, obviously bursting to reveal something extraordinary.

"We don't?"

"No, sir. See, my sister, she was born deaf. When she was little, I used to take her to lip-reading classes. I've always kept it up. And I could read Ms. Talmadge's lips."

Vince felt his mouth fall open. "You're kidding me."

"No, sir." He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. "This is what she said. I'm pretty much certain of it. 'I had to get out of that room. It's full of secrets. I could sense secrets and lies that touch all of us.' "

"You're sure about this?"

Mike nodded. "I watched it through a dozen times to make sure I wasn't mistaken. That's what she said."

"She never said a thing about running into those guys on her way to the lake," Vince said. "Why the hell would she keep quiet about something like that?"

Sarah Richmond stood up. "She's the one who got hit on the head and dumped in the lake, right? She might well have no recollection of it. Serious trauma to the head can often lead to patchy memory loss of the time immediately before the incident. There's probably nothing more sinister to it than that."

"Whatever. But we need to talk to the Talmadge woman. Now," Vince barked, delighted to have a purpose at last. "Let's head out to the hospital, Mikey."

"I checked with the hospital. She discharged herself this morning. She's back here, having a consultation with the nutritionist," he said. "She'll be done in about ten minutes."

"So what are we waiting for?" Vince demanded, heading for the door. "You did good, Mikey."

When Phyllis Talmadge emerged with her depressingly limited diet sheet, the two police officers were waiting for her. She seemed unsurprised to see them. "I had a feeling you'd want to talk to me some more," she said. "That crack on the head seems to have sharpened up my powers. I've already spoken to my agent about it, and she's arranging some press interviews so I can tell my public that far from being impaired by my injuries, my psychic abilities are stronger than they've ever been."

"Great," Vince said without enthusiasm. Just what the world needed. A reason for crackpots to smack their psychics upside the head when they didn't like their reading. He could hear the excuses now.
But officer, I was only trying to help her get a clearer picture
…

"Here's an example," the psychic continued, undaunted. She pointed to the small plastic bag containing the key that was still clutched in Vince's fingers. "That bag you're holding, it contains something belonging to the dead woman."

"Which one?" Vince said cynically. It wasn't too much of a stretch to guess that an evidence bag in the hand of a detective engaged in a murder investigation would contain an item that had been in the possession of the victim.

Phyllis frowned. "Why, Claudia, of course. You mean there have been more victims?"

Vince nodded. "We've just found Ondine dead. And Karen McElroy, the manicurist."

Phyllis nodded sagely. "I'm not surprised. I sensed there would be more deaths before the day was over. But whatever you've got in that bag didn't belong to either of them. It was Claudia's. The vibrations are unmistakable."

Intrigued now, Vince opened his hand and revealed the key. "You're telling me this key was Claudia's?"

"May I?" Phyllis said, reaching for the bag.

"Be my guest. But don't take it out."

Phyllis took the bag and placed it between her hands, which she folded into the shape of prayer. She raised them to her face, the tips of her index fingers against her lips. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Vince glanced at Mike, who was staring at the squat little woman with something approaching awe. He was surrounded by nutcases, Vince thought wearily.

Phyllis's eyes snapped open and her hands fell away from her face. "There's no mistake," she said. "This key was definitely Claudia's."

"I don't suppose your guiding spirits told you where I'll find the lock belonging to the key?" Vince said, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"Not exactly," she admitted, handing it back to him.

"I didn't think so. Now, we have a couple of questions for you-"

"But it's somewhere in that room you're using to interview us," Phyllis interrupted.

"What?" Vince exclaimed.

"That key. Whatever it opens is in that room."

"But there's nothing in there with a lock," he protested.

Phyllis shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I trust my powers. There must be a hidden safe or something like that. When I was in there before, I was oppressed by the feeling that the room was filled with secrets," she added triumphantly.

Mike gasped. "That's what you said to King David and Raoul de Vries."

Phyllis looked puzzled. "I did?"

"On your way to the lake. You told them you had to get out of the interview room because it was full of secrets and lies."

"I don't remember that," she said, confusion furrowing her brow. "But you're right, I did experience the aura of hiddenness and fear there."

Vince rolled his eyes. "I guess there's only one way to check this out. We need to search that room."

If Christopher Lund had known what had befallen Ondine, he would have been in no mood for relaxation. But so far, he was ignorant of her fate, and all he was conscious of was the need to unwind. He had nothing to fear. Only Claudia had known about the terms of their deal. Now, if the payments came to light, he could explain that Claudia was paying up front for Ondine's endorsement of the spa, which would be completed with an illustrated brochure. So what if Ondine denied all knowledge of the arrangement? She seldom knew very far in advance what he had planned for her. That she didn't know about it meant nothing. He could explain it all away, if only he could keep calm.

The steam cabinet would help, Dante had assured him. It would sweat away impurities, leaving him cleansed and languid, ready for the gentle aromatherapy massage that would follow.

It was just as well he wasn't claustrophobic, Christopher thought. For someone who didn't like confined spaces, the steam cabinet would be a decent facsimile of hell. Only his head was in the open air. The rest of his body was enclosed in the cabinet, sealed with a padded collar. The temperature was thermostatically controlled by a feedback system that reacted to the sensors Dante had carefully placed in a dozen locations around his body. And as a fail-safe there was a reassuring call button in the armrest of the cabinet, which could be used to summon help if he felt he was overheating.

He closed his eyes and felt the sweat trickling down his face as he let the saxophone of Kenny G wash over him. He was glad he'd brought his own CDs along to the spa. Five minutes in the place, and he knew all they ever played here was the whale music and Peruvian rain forest sounds that he despised. New Age garbage, all of it. This was more like it. Cool music, hot steam, and the prospect of a couple of lines of coke waiting in his cottage when the treatment was over.

His blissed-out state was abruptly halted by the clatter of something falling to the floor. Suddenly alert, Christopher looked around him in confusion. The person standing in front of the control panel obviously wasn't a member of staff. And the screwdriver that was still rolling toward him wasn't part of any health regimen that Christopher had ever heard of. The person turned to face him, eyebrows drawn down in a ferocious glare. With a surge of fear that turned his insides liquid, Christopher realized he was looking into the eyes of a killer. A killer who had just removed the cover of the panel containing the thermostatic controls for the steam cabinet.

His first thought was the panic button. He fumbled for it, his fingers slick with sweat and steam. He pressed as hard as he could, feeling relief creep through him.

As if possessed of X-ray vision, the killer produced a predator's smile. "No point in hitting the panic button, Chris. I already fused the controls. It'll look just like a short circuit. It's just you and me now. You and me and the big heat."

"What's going on?" the agent stammered. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"It's called vengeance. You killed Ondine, now I'm going to kill you."

"What? Are you crazy? Ondine's not dead!"

The killer crossed the room in a few short strides and slapped Christopher's face. "You bastard. There's no point in pretending. I know what you did."

"Okay, okay. You say she's dead. But why would I kill Ondine? She's my meal ticket." Christopher's voice was a squeal of anguish.

"I don't know why you killed her. Maybe she finally got wise to your chiseling little schemes. All I know is that I saw you leave the building. You were running, like you were running away from something. And by the time I got inside the manicure studio, she was dead. You killed her." The low voice was hoarse with passionate anger. "And now you're going to pay with your pathetic little life." The killer stepped back and picked up the screwdriver, then returned to the control panel and began to tinker with it again.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Christopher could feel the temperature rising now. His fingers were starting to swell, his throat to dry up. "I swear," he said desperately. "I didn't even know Ondine was in the manicure studio. Let me out of here. You're making a big mistake. Kill me, and Ondine's killer walks free."

The killer ignored the desperate pleas and replaced the cover on the control panel, screwing it firmly down.

"You've got it all wrong," Christopher sobbed. "Let me out of here, I promise I won't tell a soul. We'll track down the real killer together."

The killer glared at him. "You expect me to believe you? I don't think so."

Terror gripped Christopher. He opened his mouth to scream, but it was already too late. As his jaws widened, the killer moved fast, a hand snaking out to grab one of the small towels on a nearby table. Powerful fingers stuffed it into Christopher's mouth, making anything more than a muffled mumble impossible, then pinched his nostrils tight between thumb and forefinger.

Watching Christopher's face turn from scarlet to purple, the killer didn't flinch. There was a cold relish in the eyes that stared down into Christopher's panicked gaze. At last, Christopher broke their locked stare, his eyes rolling back in their sockets and suddenly dulling. The killer waited a few moments to make sure that the cheating murderer in the steam cabinet would never breathe again, then pulled the towel out of his mouth and carefully wiped both sides of Christopher's nose. There was no point in risking the possibility that the police would be able to lift fingerprints from the skin. As promised, the death would look like nothing more sinister than an unlucky accident. Nothing could bring the beautiful, fragile Ondine back. But at least she had been avenged.

VINCE TOSCANA CAME OUT Of THE steam house for a breath of air that didn't taste of parboiled human being and saw in an instant that if he didn't move right now, his rapidly decreasing pool of suspects was going to scatter to the four winds before sunset. And considering the financial resources of even the poorest among them, those winds might well carry the guilty ones beyond his reach.

Vince raised his voice to bellow, "Hey, Mikey!" The young cop was standing barely ten feet away, but it wasn't for his benefit that Vince had shouted. Every tense face, guest and spa employee alike, was now turned in his direction. Vince could feel the taut vibrations humming off them from twenty yards away. If you touched any of 'em, they'd twang.

"Right here, Vince."

Vince lowered his voice to a more normal level but kept his eyes on the skittish individuals on the other side of yet another line of yellow police tape.

"Mikey, we gotta get some calories into these people. Let's get a dinner together that's got some substance to it. You take charge of that. Talk to the cook-he'll call himself a chef, so mind your manners-and see if he's capable of cooking real food. If he is, have him put together an order and get your brother's market to deliver it. If not, put in a call to your cousin with the Italian restaurant and get him to send over anything on the menu that's got cheese or olive oil. Preferably both."

A wayward draft from the room in back of them prompted both men to take a step farther into the air, and caused Vince to add, "Maybe nothing too meaty. And ask your ma's bakery to bring us half a dozen cakes for dessert. Tall, gooey cakes." The kind Vince's wife would let him eat only about once a year.

"Tea and biscuits," said Mike unexpectedly.

"Biscuits?" Jeez, Vince thought: Southern cooking. "Nah, that chocolate cake with the icing that's six inches tall, or a coupla key lime pies, that kinda thing."

"No, no, I mean like in Agatha Christie, they're always giving people what my sister calls comfort food. Empty calories, you know? Sweet tea and cookies, they make people feel better. 'Biscuits' is British for 'cookies,' " he added helpfully.

"Whatever you say, Mikey. I dunno about comfort; I just don't want them keeling over on me. Get on it, would you? Have 'em bill the department."

As the young man trotted off, filled with the righteous anticipation of shoving a lot of unhealthful food down people who'd paid a small fortune for gussied-up celery sticks, Vince found himself wondering if the kid's police training consisted of anything but murder mysteries.