Sinister Sudoku (22 page)

Basso gave a hearty chuckle. “Oh, this fellow is no felon. He’s a respectable businessman—and it just happens that we have certain business interests in common.”

“So what was your business in Maiden’s Bay?” Liza wanted to know.

“Actually, it was in Killamook—getting my associate Mr. Tanino sprung from jail,” Basso replied. “We were going down to Main Street to talk to a lawyer when we saw a whole convoy of police cars zooming along.”

Basso gave Liza his patented avuncular smile—the one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I figured it couldn’t be a parade in my honor, but I decided to pull into the end of the line. After all, the only big deal on the local law’s plate was the Dalen murder—and the missing painting. So I decided to tag along and see if there were any developments I might be able to capitalize on.”

He shrugged. “Imagine my surprise when I saw you come out, throw a bunch of digging equipment into an SUV, and then ride off. Well, with a buildup like that, how could I resist? I told my associate to walk the rest of the way to the lawyer’s, and I took off after you—at a discreet distance, of course.”

“And you carried your law-abiding associate’s discreet gun?” Liza couldn’t help pointing out.

“Oh, he has this gun quite legally, I’ll have you know,” Basso said. “As for me carrying it—well, not so legal. That’s another reason why I had him stay behind. A solid citizen like him would be too busy worrying over pros and cons instead of taking decisive action. I, however, do not have any such problem.”

“So we see,” Liza said.

He gave her another of his creepy smiles, then went back to his story. “Holding back the way I had to, I missed that turnoff you took and didn’t find out until I got on a long straightaway and didn’t spot you up ahead. So I had to backtrack and lost some time. Still, I managed to catch up to you guys in time to hear most of the tale of the painting. The only bad part was that from where I was standing, I didn’t get a look at this famous picture.”

Basso nodded to Everard. “Would you mind taking it out of that tube and showing me? You can just spread it on the ground.”

That got a strangled sound like a growl from Howard Frost. But he didn’t say anything else as Ted Everard did as he was asked.

Like he was going to argue with a guy holding a gun in his hand.
Liza had to choke back a bubble of hysterical laughter.

Basso took a quick look at the unfurled Mondrian and shrugged, his expression massively unimpressed. “Is this the three-million-dollar big deal? I got a bathroom that looks like that. Better, even—it’s got more colors.”

He shrugged again. “Still, three mill is three mill.” Basso turned his amiable smile onto Frost. “So, Pops, if you and the old broad will just get in the hole with the others . . .”

Don’t do it,
Liza silently entreated.

Possibly, just possibly, Frost might have used the trench to keep them all at a physical disadvantage, confiscate their cell phones, and leave them stranded with the disabled SUV. By the time they managed to hoof it out of the park and find some outpost of civilization—Liza couldn’t even remember the last town, store, or gas station they’d passed— Dark-horse Howard would be well along on his getaway.

But if Frost got into this damned pit, Liza couldn’t imagine Fat Frankie letting any of them leave it alive. Frost, however, didn’t move, still holding his position behind Mrs. H. and aiming his little pistol at the gangster.

Fat Frankie’s faux joviality slowly dimmed until the mask was completely gone and the face of a professional killer stared out. “Y’know, Grampaw, I wasn’t much worried about what you would do with your little lady friend—”

“I’m not his lady friend!” Mrs. H. fumed.

“Whatever. The thing is, you should be worried about
me
. If I pull this trigger, it don’t bother me any if I gotta go through her to get to you.”

For once, Fat Frankie’s face matched his eyes—dead, and deadly.

And,
Liza’s mind irreverently had to point out,
ungrammatical, too.

Basso used his free hand to tap the side of the big pistol. “This is the real thing, not some little Saturday night special popgun like you got. You couldn’t even get a bullet all the way through Rod Carlowe’s skull. My gun can send a bullet through both of you.”

Liza gulped, realizing the crime boss wasn’t just being brutally frank, he was being frankly brutal. The muzzle of his automatic pointed straight at Mrs. Halvorsen’s chest— and at Frost’s gut behind it.

“Don’t be stupid,” Basso warned. “This can go easy— or it can get real messy.”

Howard Frost’s shoulders slumped as he began bringing his gun hand down. Then he suddenly shoved Mrs. H. to his right as he dived to the left, bringing his pistol up again.

Frankie Basso had the heart of a killer, but he hadn’t had much practice lately. His reflexes were a little slow in reacting to Frost’s desperate ploy. Both guns went off at the same time, although the boom of Basso’s automatic drowned out Frost’s shot.

Frost gave a yelp that turned into a high-pitched scream as he flopped to the stony ground. Liza could see a dark, wet discoloration on the right shoulder of his brown polyester parka.

Fat Frankie took one step back, looking down in almost comical surprise at the red stain spreading quickly across the pale, expensive wool on the chest of his overcoat. Then he realized his gun hand had dropped down by his side. Focusing on Frost, he tried to bring his pistol back up—and toppled, inert, just short of the Mondrian he had disparaged.

Okay, maybe Frost’s popgun wasn’t all that accurate,
Liza thought.
But then Fat Frankie was a pretty big target.

She, Michael, and Kevin had stood frozen in the shallow trench while everything went on. Ted Everard had dropped to one knee. Liza was about to pass a comment on his bravery—or was that common sense? But even as she opened her mouth, Ted burst to his feet with a pistol in his hand. She realized he’d been going for a backup gun in an ankle holster.

In the instant it took Ted to get his gun out, Frost snaked across the mound of earth they had shoveled out, clamped the Mondrian under his injured arm, and aimed his pistol at Everard.

“Get . . . back,” the older man gasped as he wobbled, trying to stay upright. “I’ve shown . . . I’ll . . . shoot.” His face twisted as he somehow forced himself to move, the unfurled painting held tightly across his chest almost like a shield.

It
is
a shield,
Liza realized.
Ted isn’t about to risk shooting a hole through a three-million-dollar painting. That’s not the way to get off desk duty.

She could see the struggle between his duty as a cop and prudence on Everard’s face as he stood, pistol at the ready, while Frost backed away.

“Why don’t you hold it right there,” Ted called to him.

“I really don’t think so,” Frost sneered. “You don’t dare shoot at me while I’m holding this.” He tried to flap the painting at Everard, went pale, and staggered.

Woops, he figured it out, too,
Liza thought.

“Frost, you’ve got a multimillion-dollar painting and a bleeding bullet wound.” Ted’s voice was steady. So was his gun. “How far do you think you can get?”

That fanatical gleam came back to the older man’s eyes. “I will do anything I need to do, and I will put a bullet into anyone who gets in my way. That will be you if you
don’t back off
!” His voice rose to a shout. “After all this, I’ve got the Mondrian. Nobody can stop me. Nobody!”

Frost was so busy trying to stare Ted down, he didn’t realize he was passing Elise Halvorsen’s prone figure—until she reached out and grabbed his ankle. She wasn’t able to stop him, but she sent him staggering. One of his feet caught Mrs. H. in the side of the head, and she went down again.

Howard Frost reeled off in a new direction, mouthing obscenities as he aimed his gun at the old woman. “Shoot you—”

“Oh my God, stop!” Liza yelled, her eyes going wide with shock as she saw what was about to happen. “You’re going to go off the cliff!”

“Shoot you all!” The snarl on Frost’s face suddenly changed to an expression of pained astonishment, his face abruptly going gray. His gun hand flew up reflexively to press against his chest. The whole arm jerked, and the pistol discharged. The bullet went harmlessly off into the air. As he lurched back another step, the gun flew from Frost’s suddenly nerveless fingers.

Liza began clawing her way out of the excavation. “Stop him!” she screamed at Kevin and Michael. “He’s going to fall!”

The Hangover Twins finally stirred to some action. But even as they clambered out of the trench behind Liza, Howard Frost tottered back, both arms clasped against his chest and the painting. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out.

Thrusting his pistol into the waistband of his trousers, Ted Everard reached out to Frost.

He was an instant too late.

Frost teetered backward—and disappeared off the cliff.

“Guys—the killer—the painting!” Liza knew she was babbling, but even as she dashed forward, a cooler part of her head prevailed.

Those thoughts made good sense.

Liza veered over toward her prostrate neighbor.

Dropping to her knees, Liza gently stretched a hand to the side of her neighbor’s face. “Are you all right?”

“He kicked me on the other side,” Mrs. Halvorsen mumbled, her words muffled by dirt.

With Michael and Kevin joining in, they managed to get Mrs. H. on her back and then sitting up. She pressed a hand gingerly against her cheekbone, where a bruise was already developing. “That man was a nasty piece of work,” Liza’s neighbor declared. “Did I hear him get shot?”

“No, that was when he grabbed his chest and his face went a funny color and then he fell off the cliff.” Liza realized the words were tumbling out of her again, and took a long breath to try and calm down.

“Sounds like a heart attack,” Mrs. Halvorsen said. “The exact same thing took my husband—except for the falling off the cliff part.”

“Liza!” Ted Everard called. She stepped away from Michael and Kevin, who were carefully helping Mrs. H. to her feet.

“I’m all right,” Liza heard her neighbor saying as she tried to escape the guys’ assistance. “Well, maybe a little shaky.”

Liza went to the cliff edge, where Everard was lying prone, looking downward.

“Got a touch of vertigo?” she asked the state cop.

“No, I’m looking at something and don’t want to be distracted by footing issues,” Ted replied.

Liza dropped to her hands and knees, then lay down and stuck her head over the edge.

She stared down for a long minute, silent.

“Well, finally,” Everard said with some satisfaction. “I found something that completely shut up the great Liza Kelly.”

“It’s just as well you’re lying down,” she told him. “If you were standing up, I’d probably push you over for making a crack like that.”

“And I don’t expect I’d be as lucky as our friend Howard here,” Ted replied. “How many people go off a hundred-foot cliff, drop a bit more than a yard, and get caught by a bush?”

Liza shuddered as she peered down at the body tangled in the branches of a bush tenaciously clinging to the cliff face. She saw Frost’s pale face, those staring eyes . . . “Ted, he’s not breathing. Mrs. H. said that it could be something like a heart attack.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Everard said. “He checked himself out of the hospital against the advice of the doctors after walking through that blizzard. It’s possible that he might have developed a blood clot that got shaken loose with all the banging around he went through here.”

He went into his pocket. “I’m going to call this in. Hope the cell coverage is decent out here.”

“Before you do,” Liza told him, “I want you to hold me.”

Ted nearly jumped out of his skin at her words. The cell phone almost flew out of the state cop’s hands and into the pounding surf below. “Hold you?” he repeated. “You want me to hold you? Now?”

“Yes,” Liza replied.

He reached for her shoulders as though to embrace her.

“Not like that. Grab my ankles. I need somebody to anchor me as I go down after that goddam painting. You’re the least hung over or strung out person here except for Mrs. H., and she got kicked in the head.”

“Yeah?” he muttered, hanging onto her legs as she skooched forward to bend from the waist. “I can’t imagine how that happened.”

“I can,” she said. “Hang on!”

By stretching her arms to the limit, she just managed to catch hold of a corner of the Mondrian. As they pulled the painting to safety, she caught the rest of his words. “Ain’t
that
a kick in the head?”

A few days later, Liza walked the few blocks from Hackleberry Avenue down Main Street to the Unitarian Church. The white clapboard structure with the tall steeple looked like something you might find in rural Massachusetts, revealing the New England roots of many of Oregon’s early settlers. Liza crossed the street and headed for the church doors. She’d been here for a few weddings and a funeral. The interior was a combination of white paint and heavily varnished pine. It would make a simple and somber background for the last rites for Chris Dalen.

Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she walked up to the church steps. The day was clear but cold, and the empty street seemed somewhat melancholy.

Well,
Liza consoled herself,
at least there’s not some jackass shoving a microphone in my face.

The recovery of the Mondrian had created a brief media frenzy. Downtown Maiden’s Bay had been clogged with television vans and camera crews. One more ambitious reporter and her crew got themselves stranded out at Cape Sinestra when their van broke an axle on the way to getting a location shot on the cliff where Howard Frost and Frankie Basso had died. That had been hot news for a day.