Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (24 page)

"I'm also a pretty good dancer," Mark said with a friendly smile.

Begay stopped, turned, and pointed to a small growth on his cheek, up toward his temple. "See this?"

"Yes," Mark said.

"Will I live?"

"I haven't met anyone who's died from a mole yet," Mark said. "But I suppose you could be the first."

Begay's lips curled into what Mark assumed was his approximation of a grin.

"Bodie lives in Corrales. I've got a patrol car watching the place," Begay said. "You can follow me out there."

Mark followed Begay north out of the city through an up scale neighborhood of homes that mixed Pueblo, ranch, and Mediterranean-inspired architecture with equally mixed results. There were no sidewalks. People on horseback rode on trails that paralleled the road, ran along the Rio Grande river, and disappeared into the thick wooded area known as the Bosque. The stores and restaurants they passed had hitching posts.

Jerry Bodie's house was an unassuming two-story contemporary adobe with a well-kept lawn, a small horse-riding ring, a detached garage, and a stable. The house, like all the others on the street, backed up against a dry irrigation levee and, beyond it, a forest of big cottonwoods.

Begay and Mark pulled up behind the patrol car, which was parked across the street from Bodie's house. Begay got out of his car. The officer rolled down his window. Begay leaned inside, said a few words to the officer, and the patrol car drove off. Mark joined him and together they approached the low front gate, which was more for show than protection. Begay hit the buzzer.

"Yes?" A woman's voice answered. It sounded familiar, even behind the crackle of static.

"Norman Begay, Albuquerque Police. I'd like to talk with Jerry Bodie."

"Come on up," she said, and Mark placed the voice. She was the woman who'd answered when he called Roswell Imaging.

The gate opened and they walked up the crushed gravel driveway to the house, where the woman was waiting for them, holding the front door open. She wore very short shorts, a loose-fitting shirt, and a big smile. Mark guessed she was in her early twenties.

"Can I see your badge?" she asked with almost childlike excitement.

Begay flashed his badge. She leaned forward and studied it, biting her lower lip.

"Cool," she said, then glanced at Mark. "What about yours?"

"I'm not a cop," Mark said.

"What are you?" she asked.

"I'm a doctor. My name is Mark Sloan. What's yours?"

She smiled. "Cloris O'Dell."

"What's your relationship to Mr. Bodie, if I may ask?" Mark said.

"I'm his squeeze," she said brightly. "And he's my stud."

"Do you live with Mr. Bodie?" Begay asked.

"Sometimes," she said, trying hard to be cute and largely succeeding. "Is that illegal now?"

"Depends," Begay said. "Are you underage?"

"That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time," She gave him a big smile. "You're a flirt, Detective."

Mark couldn't be certain, but he didn't think Begay was joking.

"We'd like to speak with Mr. Bodie," Mark said. "Do you know where we could find him?"

"Sure," Cloris stepped aside and let them in. "He's in the den, playing with his trains."

The house was lushly furnished with stone floors, leather furniture, and Native American paintings and artifacts on the walls. She led them to the den, where Jerry Bodie stood in the center of an elaborate, chest-high model of a small town and the surrounding countryside. A railroad system ran through the miniature town, over elaborately detailed bridges, and through tunnels, past ranches, cattle, cars, and people.

Bodie was dressed in a T-shirt and denim overalls and wore a conductor's hat. He was on the pudgy side and hairy every where except on his head, which was probably why he was wearing the hat, beyond the allure of getting into character.

The sound of the railroad train chugging along the track, its smokestack puffing and its whistle blowing, was loud enough to block Jerry from hearing the doorbell or Mark and Begay's arrival. Jerry didn't notice they were there until his girlfriend yelled his name.

Jerry looked up, startled at the sight of the two strangers in his den, and shut down his railroad.

"These guys came to see you," Cloris said.

"What are they selling?" Jerry said pleasantly to her, as if they weren't there.

"They're cops," Cloris said, then corrected herself. "Well, he is," she tilted her head toward Begay. "The other one is a doctor."

"I'm Det. Norman Begay, Albuquerque Police." Begay flashed his badge. "And this is Dr. Mark Sloan."

Jerry Bodie looked blankly at them both. "What can I do for you?"

Mark took a piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out for Jerry to see. The paper contained the photos Kealoha sent Mark of the suspected hit man.

"Have you ever seen this man?" Mark asked.

Jerry glanced at the pictures. "No, I don't think so."

"That's a relief," Mark said. "He wants to kill you."

"Me?" Jerry said, shocked. "Why?"

"It's a little complicated to explain, so please be patient with me," Mark said. "Do you remember the Standiford kidnapping? It happened in Las Vegas, about five years ago."

Jerry shook his head. "No, I don't recall that."

"It was around the time you moved out here and started up your business," Mark said. "You were probably too busy with all of that to be paying much attention to the news. Roger Standiford owns a bunch of casinos. A gang of kidnappers took his daughter and demanded a $4.5 million ransom. He paid it."

"I remember that," Cloris said. "The girl who was buried in a pit, right? She died, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did," Mark said. "And the four kidnappers disappeared with the ransom. We think Roger Standiford hired a hit man to track down the fugitives and kill them."

"What does any of that have to do with me?" Jerry asked.

"One of the kidnappers changed his identity, moved to Hawaii, and opened a restaurant," Mark said. "His name was Stuart Appleby, but he called himself Danny Royal."

"We know him!" Cloris shrieked, raising a hand to her mouth and looking wide-eyed at Jerry. "Oh, my God, we know him!"

"Why don't you go make us some iced tea," Jerry said. "I'll take care of this."

"Iced tea?" She said. "Since when do we drink iced tea? I want to hear this."

"Cloris, please." Jerry said firmly.

She glared at Jerry and stomped off. As soon as she was gone, Jerry turned to Mark.

"We don't know him, per se. He's a client of ours," Jerry said. "We made some postcards for his restaurant. Souvenirs with pictures and recipes on them. That's where our relationship with him begins and ends."

"It's definitely ended," Mark said. "He's dead."

"Dead?" Jerry said, glancing at Begay, who's stone face revealed nothing.

"Murdered, actually," Mark said. "The killer fed him to sharks."

"Sharks?" Jerry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the color draining from his face. "That's horrible."

"Worse than you can imagine," Mark said. "I saw what was left of him. He looked like a half-eaten sandwich."

"I still don't see what this has to do with me," Jerry said. "I hardly knew the guy. We just made some postcards for him, that's all."

"I wish it was," Mark said glumly. "One of the other kidnappers, Diane Love, was just murdered. And you know what she had in her kitchen?"

Mark took out a Royal Hawaiian recipe card from his pocket and held it up.

"One of these," he said.

"She must have visited the restaurant," Jerry said. "And took home one of the recipe cards as a souvenir or a way to keep his phone number handy."

"That would certainly explain it," Mark said. "But unfortunately, the name of your company is at the bottom of the card."

"Of course it is," Jerry said. "Because we made it. When ever our clients let us, we put our name and address on our work so it doubles as advertising for us."

"That makes good business sense," Mark said. "Except the killer isn't going to see it that way."

"Why not?" Jerry said.

"Because you also did the brochure for Dr. Morris Plume's plastic surgery clinic," Mark said. "And your company name and address are on that brochure, too."

"So?" Jerry said.

"Dr. Plume gave the four kidnappers their new faces,"

Mark said. "And a couple days ago, someone broke into his office and stole all his files."

"I'm completely lost here," Jerry said. "We make a lot of brochures for a lot of doctors. Maybe this Danny Royal got the idea to hire us from our work on the brochure."

"I'm sure that's probably what happened," Mark said. "But I'm afraid the killer isn't going to believe the connection is so benign."

"Why not?" Jerry said. "It's the logical explanation."

"Because the name of your company is an anagram," Mark said.

"What's that?" Jerry said.

"A word or phrase made by transposing the letters of another word or phrase," Begay said.

Mark smiled at Begay. "Exactly."

"I still don't see the problem," Begay said.

"Roswell Imaging is an anagram for William Gregson," Mark said. "One of the kidnappers."

"Murderers," Begay corrected.

"Right," Mark said. "Kidnapper and murderer. Now do you see the situation?"

"No," Jerry said, swallowing hard.

"The hit man is going to think you're William Gregson," Mark said. "And he's going to kill you."

"It's a coincidence," Jerry protested. "That's all."

"It appears you're a victim of your own advertising." Mark said. "Of course, there's also the other coincidence."

"What other coincidence?" Jerry said, his voice becoming a bit shrill.

"You moved to New Mexico and started your company a short time after the Standiford kidnapping," Mark said. "That isn't going to look so good to the hit man. Fact is, you add it all up, I could even be convinced you're William Gregson."

"Me, too," Begay said.

"This is a terrible mistake." Jerry sat down slowly on a stool and took off his cap. He looked longingly at the small town in front of him, as if he wished he could shrink and disappear into it.

"At least you're still alive," Mark said. "We'd like to keep you that way."

Jerry looked up. "What do you have in mind?"

"Protective custody," Mark said. "We can put you under round-the-clock protection right here, or in one of the city's nicest hotels, until we can catch this guy."

Jerry sat for a long moment, thinking. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "I don't believe I need protection."

"You would if you'd seen the parts of Danny Royal that the shark spit out," Mark said.

"Thankfully, there are no sharks in Corrales," Jerry said, standing up again, regaining some of his composure. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't think I'm in any danger. No offense, but I doubt anyone would see these events the way you have. It's a mishmash of coincidence and conjecture that's predicated on a huge contrivance and a complete disregard of common sense."

Begay glanced at Mark. "Aren't you glad he preceded all that with 'no offense' first?"

"The hit man is going to scrutinize your finances, pick apart your past, and look into every aspect of your life," Mark said.

"Then I'm even more confident that I'm safe, because then he will certainly discover his mistake," Jerry said, put ting on his cap again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't get much time to play with my trains."

Jerry turned his back to the two men and started up his train again, filling the room with the whistles and chug chug-chugging of the locomotive on its tiny tracks.

Mark and Begay saw themselves out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"He didn't confess," Begay said as they walked to their cars.

"Not overtly," Mark said.

"Not at all," Begay replied.

"All we have to do now is wait for him to run."

"We?"

"I can't watch him alone," Mark said. "His house opens up on a forest. It's going to take half a dozen men to do this right."

"I can't help you on that," Begay said, stopping at his car.

"I thought you owed my son a favor," Mark said.

"I did," Begay said. "And I've just repaid it. I can't justify the manpower or the hours necessary to watch this man.

"You don't believe he's William Gregson?"

Begay shrugged. "Whoever he is, I think he's right about your evidence. There isn't enough there, certainly not enough to convince my captain it's worth paying the over time to watch this guy."

"You know he's lying," Mark said.

Begay nodded. "I'll check him out, work the phones a bit, maybe come up with something more convincing than an anagram."

Mark sighed. "Someone has to try to watch him. I'll park myself here as long as I can."

"Think what you'll save on hotels," Begay said, glancing at his watch. "I'll ask for a patrol car to cruise by every hour or two. There's a shopping center up the street. I'll stay here while you get whatever you think you're gonna need."

"Thanks," Mark said and went back to his car.

Mark parked his car around the corner from Jerry's house and angled his rearview and side-view mirrors so he could recline comfortably in his seat and keep a constant watch on any comings or goings.

There weren't any.

He wasn't trained in surveillance nor did he have much experience doing it, so he didn't have any clever tricks for getting past the crushing boredom. Worse than that was the heat. He didn't dare keep the motor running so he could use the air conditioner, for fear of drawing attention to himself. So instead he rolled down the windows and toughed it out, his back sticking to the hot leather seat.

Mark kept himself hydrated with bottled water and munched on fresh fruit, raisins, and unsalted nuts. True to his word, Begay did send by a patrol car, the officers acknowledging Mark with a nod as they passed each hour. Between Mark and the patrol cars, it didn't amount to much surveillance or protection, but at least Jerry Bodie/William Gregson couldn't just hop in his car and speed off without being noticed. Still, Mark was keenly aware of the inadequacy of the effort, and the opportunities and dangers posed by the irrigation ditch and the forest behind the house.