Ringer (24 page)

“Shui Ping?”

“A man in a white suit and stocking face mask attacked Mr. Grant, and I did my thing. Shui Ping is a martial art.” Gina made short jabbing motions with her fists, and Tony winced.

“That is most unusual.” I held my chin. “A man of that description attempted to assault Purity today, and I did my thing.”

“Shui Ping?”

I shook my head. “I merely chased the coward off.”

“Coward?” Tony leaned forward.

“Indeed. As soon as he saw me, he took off through the hedge like a rabbit.”

“Is that so?” Tony was about to say something else, but Gina elbowed him and he sank back into the sofa, grumbling.

“This is amazing!” Gina chirped. “Where are you from, Morty? How do you know the Grants?”

“I am here on business, and to tell you the truth, I do not know the Grants well. I happened to be beside the road when Purity drove by and was attacked.” I figured the short version was just easier. “My car is disabled, so in exchange for my valor Purity asked me to stay the night until I can make passage back to New York. It is really quite generous of her.”

“You’re not here on business with Mr. Grant?”

“I am here on behalf of my local parish in La Paz.”

“Mexico?”

“You have heard of it?”

“Of course. Baja Sur, right?”

“That is a fascinating pendant.” I leaned in close to inspect the cheap jewelry, and more. The smell of her hair was like a summer day. An intoxicating woman.

“It’s onyx.”

“It goes exquisitely with your hair.”

“Maybe in this light. What does your parish have you doing in New York, Morty?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss church business, I apologize.”

“So what do you do in La Paz?”

“I am gentry.”

“Gentry?”

“I have made my fortune, so I no longer have a job. I help the church with sensitive matters such as the mission I am now engaged upon.”

She batted her eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. “Sounds mysterious. Do tell?”

Were her idiot cousin not there I surely would have blurted out anything she wished to know, but even in the face of overwhelming pulchritude, I managed to cling to my last shred of decorum.

“I cannot tell you the circumstance at present, but would be delighted to do so at another time. You say you live in the city but are just visiting here?”

She put a hand on my knee and leaned her ear toward my lips. “Just whisper, I won’t tell.”

I have never been what you call a particular fan of the female ear one way or the other, but this one I could have spent all night caressing. Exquisite.

Her hand squeezed my knee, and I felt light-headed.

“I am here to recover a lost ring.”

Her eyes met mine and blinked slowly, her tongue coursing her lips in anticipation of my continued betrayal.

“It went missing many years ago from a reliquary, where it reposed upon the finger of my ancestor the conquistador Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra. It is said the ring was fashioned from the golden Hapsburg medallion that encased a part of the true cross, and is embossed with the double cross of Caravaca.”

Gina leaned in farther, that delectable tongue tracing the edge of those diaphanous lips, her eyes wide. “Is it Mr. Grant that has the ring?”

I finally blinked, and realized I needed to start breathing again to forestall unconsciousness. “How could you know this?”

“When I drove for him today, he was wearing a ring just like that! Do you think that the ring is cursed?”

“What makes you say this?”

“Mr. Grant was wearing a talisman around his neck, the kind to protect him from extreme danger. Something old like that ring, especially one having something to do with God … well, it could be cursed. He should give you back that ring.”

“He has agreed to do this, only there has been a delay of some sort.”

“Wait, though—when you have the ring,
you
will be cursed, won’t you?”

“I have been deputized by the church for the recovery of the ring. I cannot be cursed when I am the instrument of God’s will.”

“Then I will get the ring from Mr. Grant and give it to you. He was in danger today, and from what you tell me, so was his daughter. We must end this.”

“We?”

“Like you, I am already involved.” She made the short Shui Ping jabs of her fists again.

I sipped my wine, trying to clear my head of Gina’s hypnotic femininity. When faced with such a daunting beauty, I try to find some imperfection on which to focus, which helps me view her as human. One nostril seemed slightly larger than the other.

“Yes, but what I don’t understand is, who is this masked man in the white suit attacking Purity and Robert Tyson Grant? What is his purpose?”

“It must be to obtain the ring, to keep you from your mission. This attacker must therefore be an agent of Satan.”

“An agent of Satan?”

“Does that surprise you? Does it surprise you that you should be on a mission for the Holy See and that you might come up against Satan?”

Gina’s ingenuity may seem surprising, but let’s flash back quickly to her on a movie set. She stands script in hand with the crew, who are standing too close to her and leering. Gina is dressed in a safari outfit and staring straight ahead at the lead actress for whom she is the stunt double. This lead actress is in an identical safari outfit and seated at a desk in a set designed to look like a monastery library, gargantuan stage lights pouring fake sunlight through arched faux-stone windows in the background. The lead actor is in a white turtleneck and a shoulder holster, sitting on the chair next to hers. From under the table we can see he is sitting atop phone books so that he appears taller than the actress. The two of them are marveling at the text in a large dusty book splayed on the table in front of them. A hulking Panavision camera and its operator loom over the actors, closely flanked by the director and several technical people. One techie cantilevers a gourd-sized mic on a boom over the actors’ heads; another techie steps forward with a black and white slate. On the slate in white chalk is written the title of the movie:
KUNG FU TEMPLARS
.

Techie: “Act Ten, Scene Four, Take Three.”

Director: “Action.”

Lead Actress, finger on the book: “So what this is telling us is…”

Lead Actor, one eyebrow raised: “Exactly. Satan himself!”

Director: “Cut. Good work, people.”

Cut to a close-up of me, one eyebrow raised. “Satan himself!”

Close-up of Gina: “Mr. Grant is at the house tonight, isn’t he? I drove him to the heliport myself earlier.”

Close-up of me: “He was just arriving when I left.”

Close-up of Gina: “Morty, I don’t think we have any time to lose.”

Close-up of me: “I suppose there isn’t any time for another glass of wine.”

Close-up of Gina: “Do you think Satan is taking time for another glass of wine when the ring is still vulnerable? We must get the ring and put it on the finger of the conquistador, whatsisname…”

Close-up of me: “Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra.”

Close-up of Gina: “Yes, him.”

Close-up of me: “The house is a half mile up on the right, with a lighthouse mailbox. I must remain with Purity and see her home.”

Close-up of Gina: “Be careful. Come soon.”

Close-up of me: “We must both look out for Satan, yes?”

Close-up of Gina: “Yes.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FIVE

PAN ACROSS THE FLUORESCENT CUBICLES
in the
Daily Post
newsroom until we come to Skip’s cubbyhole. He is leaning back in his chair, transfixed by his phone, a laptop at his elbow. An older man with bad acne scars, a mustache, and a
PRESS
windbreaker stops in the cubicle entry.

The man sneered. “The boss was right, you ain’t busy.”

“Hello, Bent.” Skip glanced at the man.

“I sent you an e-mail.”

“Mm hm.”

“I got something for you to work on.”

“I have Purity Grant to work on.”

“Not breaking a sweat here, are yuh?”

“Bent, to the untrained eye of a crime reporter, what I’m doing may not look like work, but it is. Keeping track of Purity is a full-time job.”

“The boss doesn’t think so. Work on what I sent you until something
real
happens with your girlfriend.”

“Sorry, can’t help you.”

“Listen, punk, the boss says to give me a hand or he’s holding back your expense vouchers.”

“Eat me, Bent.”

“Really? Tell the boss to fuck off if you want to, but I need a little help here, is that too much to ask?”

A wiry balding man in a sweater vest stepped next to Bent. “Skip? Something you want to tell me?”

Skip sat up. “No, boss, it’s just that I’m busy with Purity and the Mexican guardian angel.”

“What’s up?”

“Well, she’s out in the Hamptons with the Mexican.”

“You send a photographer?”

“Yes, but there’s not much to get, just a stretch of road.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Trying to locate someone who may have seen her. Waiting. But…”

“Help Bent until something happens.”

“Yeah, but…”

The boss took a step into the cubicle and leaned down to within an inch of Skip’s nose. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yup, OK.” Skip was trying not to cringe.

The boss retreated. Bent huffed and stalked off.

“Assholes,” Skip hissed. He turned to his laptop, went to his e-mail, and clicked into the one from Bent. He then clicked a link. The small headline from the
Charlotte Sun
read:
MEXICAN GANG BEHEADING NEAR CULPVILLE
.

Skip’s lips moved as he read down. The audience sees highlights of the story.

… South of the Border employees who were illegals … dormitory-style conditions and indentured to the victim … decapitated body found under a woodpile at the old Smith tobacco barns … head found in bus locker … three Mexican illegals who were witnesses apprehended … resembled cartel gangland beheadings … suspect has yellow eyes and carries a small hatchet …

Skip scrolled down to an artist rendering of Paco that was reasonably accurate, especially the eyes.

He clicked on the next link, and it was an article from the
Richmond Times,
and the small headline read:
MOTOR LODGE OWNER ASSAULTED
.

Skip scrolled down to another artist rendering, which was similar to the first.

The third link was a
Daily Post
police log entry for Manhattan:
NEWSSTAND HATCHET ROBBER
.

… a newsstand outside Penn Station and described as a Hispanic male, 5
'
6
"
with hazel eyes …

A note from Bent at the bottom of the e-mail read:
Skip: Check this out. Same Mexican?

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

CUT TO A WIDE ANGLE
of the Grant mansion, limpid blue pool in the foreground. The silhouettes of Dixie followed by Paco pass in front of the pool, and as the camera pans right we see them walk quietly up to the guest cabana. The pool pump hums and waves crash on the beach off-camera.

Reverse angle: From inside the cabana, Dixie opens the door. She flicks on and then flicks off the interior light. She and Paco are in silhouette again in front of the pool, in the doorway.

“Stay in here until they get back, and keep the lights out,” Dixie whispered. “You see that balcony up there?”

Paco nodded.

“The light will go on up there when she comes home. She’ll be drunk. She always drinks a bottle of Perrier before bed, and we’ve laced it with sleeping pills. Wait five minutes until after the lights go out. Do you understand?”

Paco nodded again. “Light out. Five minute.”

“Can you climb up the stonework to the balcony? Lord knows
she’s
climbed up and down that stonework ever since she was a child.”

“I do.”

“The balcony door is unlocked. Climb up, pull her out of bed, drop her headfirst off the balcony onto the concrete.”

Paco’s silhouette made a stabbing gesture. “No knife?”

“
No!
It must look like an accident. She was drunk and took pills and fell off the balcony, that’s what happens. Only
you
make it happen, understand?”

“I do.”

“We’ve made sure the security cameras won’t be pointing that way. The staff is all out for the night at a wedding. Nobody will be around to see anything. Next, you climb back down and come back in here and hide in the closet, understand? We’ll get you some gardener’s clothes and get you out of here in the morning, but stay in the closet, do you understand?”

“Closet. I stay.”

“Good. Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be flying to Baja on our Gulfstream. We’ll take you home.”

“Good. My trip here not good. Question?”

“Yes?”

“I not cut her head?”

“What?”

Paco made a slicing gesture across his throat with his thumb.

“
No!
Just throw her off the balcony, headfirst, straight down into the patio. Do not cut her head off.”

Paco’s silhouette was bowed with disappointment.

“Paco? I want your promise you’ll do exactly what we ask. Promise that you will not cut her, or cut her head off. Promise?” Dixie held up her hand as if swearing him in as a witness.

Paco sighed. “I promise.”

*   *   *

From atop the mansion roof we see Paco and Dixie by the guest cabana off the pool. The camera pans over the ocean and dunes and down to the opposite side of the house and driveway. A limousine is pulling in.

Inside the limo, Gina turned away from the steering wheel and looked into the backseat, where Tony was asleep. She gave the mansion a calculating, squinty look before opening the driver’s door and climbing out. She stepped up to the portico and rang the bell.

After a few beats, the window curtain parted.

Robert Tyson Grant’s eye grew wide, and the door swung open. He was still in slacks, but his shirt was untucked and there were worn boat shoes on his feet.

“Gina!”

“There’s no time. We must talk.”