To Collar a Killer, page 22
“Fine, fine. It’s a shame that we have to meet again under
such tragic circumstances, but there you are.” He took the pipe
from between his slightly chapped lips, turned sideways and
pointed toward the back door. “The kitchen and dining room
are right inside. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve dried off.”
We went through the door. I turned to thank him but he had
disappeared into one of the cabanas. I turned back to find an
English butler in full regalia, just placing a small glass of
scotch, neat, on the dining room table.
“Your scotch, sir,” he said.
“But how did you . . . ? That’s quick service.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Maxwell likes it that way.”
“Me too,” I said, coming to the table, picking up the glass
and sniffing the amber liquid. I took a careful sip. It was good.
It was very good. “Thanks, Jeeves.”
Jamie tsked at me.
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181
“The name is Charles, sir. But if you like, you may call me
Jeeves instead. I’ll answer either way.”
“Thanks, Charles.”
He nodded a small bow. “If you require anything else, sir,
just let me know.” He quietly took himself to another part of the
room and receded into the shadows.
“Charles?” I said.
He stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”
“Just checking.”
Jamie shook her head and sighed.
“Very good, sir.” He receded again.
Maxwell rejoined us, wearing a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball
cap, natural-colored linen slacks, a brown, factory-faded, over-
sized T-shirt—not tucked in—and leather flip-flops. He came
over to the table, bringing a bright smile with him.
“How’s your drink?” he said.
“Excellent,” I opined.
“Good. Let’s go into the study to talk. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all,” Jamie said, getting up. “In fact, the study
would be great. I’d really like to see the study.”
Uh-oh. She was acting talkative and girlish.
“Charles?” Maxwell said, but the butler was already standing
at the study door, holding it open for us. “Shall we?” Maxwell
gestured with his pipe. Then, as we passed the butler, he said,
“Have Paul join us.”
“Very good, sir.”
To me, Maxwell said, “My security chief, Paul Kemp. He
can probably answer some of your questions about Gordon bet-
ter than I can.”
“Peachy,” I said.
Jamie shot me a look.
We came inside and looked around. There was a lot to look
at—among other things, a Pissaro landscape, a Cezanne still
life of a bowl of fruit, and a self-portrait by Picasso.
We sat on some very modern and artsy furniture—covered in
some kind of soft, cashmerelike gray material. There was track
lighting, with half a dozen lights specially trained on the art-
work. I sipped some more scotch.
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LEE CHARLES KELLEY
“Nice Cezanne,” I said, not able to take my eyes off it.
Maxwell sat and puffed on his pipe. “You like that picture,
Jack? May I call you Jack?”
“Feel free. And I like it quite a lot, actually.”
“Me too. It’s not as valuable as the Picasso—that cost me ten
million, but the Cezanne is one of my favorites. I have another
upstairs, if you’d care to see it later. Plus a Van Gogh and a Cha-
gall you might like. Ah, here’s Paul.”
Paul Kemp was fairly tall, with a totally bald—or clean-
shaven—head. And though I couldn’t be sure, it seemed to me
that he was the maverick Navy SEAL who’d tried to kill me
and Sherry Maughn at the carnival on Sunday.
“I know you,” I said dumbly.
“Yes,” said Maxwell, “I believe you two have already met.
Have a seat, Paul.”
“I’d rather stand, sir.”
“Have it your way.” He looked at me. “I had thought to put
this meeting off awhile. But ‘the sooner the better,’ that’s al-
ways been my motto. No sense in wasting time, now, is there?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“And the two of you have met twice, actually. Once at the
carnival, and yesterday when Paul was impersonating U.S.
Marshal Rondo Kondolean. Although, I believe he actually is a
U.S. Marshal, aren’t you Paul?”
“Yes, sir. On special assignment.”
“So, it was you,” I said to Kemp. “You tried to kill me and
Sherry at the carnival. And you actually did kill her yesterday,
didn’t you? You shot her with a .22.” That didn’t seem right to
me somehow. Unconsciously I knew that it couldn’t have been
Kemp who’d killed Sherry Maughn, but it didn’t fully register
why at the time.
Kemp stood there, saying nothing.
I looked over at Jamie. She just stared at Maxwell, no longer
talkative and girlish.
33
Finally, she said, “How did you know that we knew?”
Maxwell shrugged. “Parabolic microphones, my dear. Paul
has been monitoring your conversations since the two of you
docked. He and I had a brief chat out in the cabana, which is
when I realized that my ruse about having just been swimming
hadn’t fooled you into thinking I wasn’t wounded.” He took off
his baseball cap, turned sideways and showed us a bandage on the
back of his head. “It was my blood on the yachting cap Jack found
at the scene. A man with a gash in his head wouldn’t be likely to
go for a swim, now would he? Hence, the swim trunks and the
wet hair.” He looked at me. “I should have actually gotten into the
pool, though, shouldn’t I?”
I said, “That’s past tense. In fact, past perfect. What I want to
know is, what are your intentions now? To kill us?”
He laughed. “Hardly. You I could do without, but I like Jamie.
Besides, no matter what kind of evidence you come up with to
prove I killed Beeson—and I’m not saying I did, but even if I
had, it would have been justified—I won’t spend a minute in
jail. Paul has seen to that. Haven’t you, Paul?”
“Yes, sir. I killed Beeson and Sherry Maughn.”
Jamie was still dumbstruck.
“And why the hell,” I asked politely, “did you do that?”
“They were having an affair,” he recited. “I was in love with
her. I lost my mind, momentarily.”
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LEE CHARLES KELLEY
“You flipped out,” I suggested, “went nuts.”
“Yes, sir,” he said flatly. “I was temporarily insane.”
I looked at Maxwell.
He smiled.
I said. “So, why do you think killing Beeson was justifiable?”
“I’m not saying I did kill him, you understand. But if I did, it would have been a matter of national security.”
“National security?”
“Certainly. Everything I do is a matter of national security.
I’m more important to the government than the President him-
self, you know. I really am.”
The guy was bonkers, and not just temporarily. But I wasn’t
about to tell him that. “Why are you so important?” I said. “Be-
cause of your defense contracts?”
“Not just defense contracts. Espionage tools, advanced ro-
botics, superconductors, holographic imaging, you name it.”
“How about if you name it?”
He laughed but shook his head no—he wasn’t going to tell
me his industrial secrets. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said,
“I could use some guard dogs for the property. I don’t like dogs,
personally. In fact, I despise the barking little parasites. But I
could put you and your staff at the kennel on permanent re-
tainer. I might even throw in that Cezanne you like so much, as
an added incentive.”
“You mean a bribe,” I suggested.
He puffed his pipe. “Call it a perk.”
I got up and went over to the painting. “Is this a genuine
Cezanne?” I turned to look at Maxwell. “Because I wouldn’t
care to own a forged copy.”
“I doubt if you’d be able to tell the difference.”
“Sherry was that good, huh?” I finished my scotch.
He shrugged. “If I knew what you were talking about, I might
be able to respond to that.” He puffed his pipe.
“I was just wondering: Why live on an island?” I put down
my empty glass. “It seems awfully inconvenient.”
“Not at all. I have a full staff. I have my choice of different
modes of transportation. And I have my privacy. Besides, the
TO COLLAR A KILLER
185
sea holds many mysteries. You know, the secrets of the deep.”
He waggled his eyebrows like Captain Nemo.
“Un-huh. And does Señor Ortiz know you sold him a bunch
of forged paintings? How’s that for a mystery?”
His face darkened. He shot a look at Kemp. “You had to miss
him, didn’t you? You’re supposed to be a crack shot.”
“Sorry, sir. But I was sandbagged by that lush friend of his,
that Lou Kelso fellow.”
“Like that’s an excuse?”
“Boys, boys,” I calmed them. “What’s done is done.”
Maxwell put his pipe down next to an ashtray, turned to me
and tried to smile. “I must admit, you’ve done some excellent
detective work, Jack. May I still call you Jack?”
“Sure? May I call you Your Evil Highness?”
He nearly doubled over with laughter.
“You are evil, Ian,” Jamie said. “Don’t you know that?”
“Am I?” He sighed and stood up. “Paul, would you escort
these two to the helipad? I’m afraid I’ve given them just about
all the time I can afford to right now.” He turned to Jamie. “I
hope you don’t mind, Jamie. I had your father’s runabout refu-
eled, then asked one of my people to take it back to his place in
Christmas Cove for you. I’ve also arranged to have you and your
fiancé flown back to the mainland.”
“I do mind,” she said, looking down at his pipe.
I said, “So do I. I’m not comfortable with the idea of having
the Coast Guard find our bloated bodies bobbing in the waters
of Muscongus Bay two weeks from now.”
“Oh, please. You said it yourself: ‘What’s done is done.’Yes,
Paul may have tried to kill you. But that’s all over with—more’s
the pity.” He went to the door, which was immediately opened
from the outside by Charles. “We’ve made arrangements with
the government to be done with this whole mess. Part of the
agreement was that there be no more dead bodies, especially
yours. Isn’t that right, Paul?”
“Yes, sir.”
I said, “And in return, you won’t be prosecuted for murder.”
Maxwell smiled. “Something like that.”
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LEE CHARLES KELLEY
To the butler, I said, “Did you hear all that, Charles?”
“I’m sorry, sir. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
“I doubt that, Charles. I doubt that very much.”
“Awfully kind of you to say so, sir.”
I looked at Kemp. “So, what was that after-shave you were
wearig the other night? When you planted the transponder un-
der my car. Some kind of moose-musk?”
He shook his head. “Cougar urine.”
“Lovely,” I said.
Maxwell interrupted our repartee. “I believe you may have a
chance to meet the real Agent Kondolean tonight, Jack, and
he’ll explain to you the details of our arrangement.”
“Is that right? I’d still feel more comfortable going home the
way we came. Wouldn’t you?” I said to Jamie.
She agreed, so as we walked through the spacious dining
room, Maxwell and Kemp got on the two-way with someone
named Brian, who was apparently piloting the runabout for us,
and asked him to turn around and come back.
At this point we were nearly at the kitchen door, but Charles
had somehow gotten there ahead of us and insinuated himself
into a position to open it. Jamie said, “You know what I just re-
alized? I left my handbag in the study.”
“Allow me, ma’am,” Charles said as if to go.
She said, “That’s all right. I can get it.”
“Yes, ma’am, but if you’ll just allow me—”
“Hey, Charles.” I stopped him, though his eyes followed
Jamie. “I think I’d like to have another taste of that good scotch
before I go. Would you mind?”
“Not at all, sir. A small glass, neat. Is that right?”
“You know it is, old chap.”
“Very good, sir.” He smiled, bowed slightly, and went to
the bar.
Maxwell finished his radio call and said, “The runabout
should be back at the dock by the time you get there. And one
other thing, I would advise against talking to Señor Ortiz.”
“I hadn’t considered it, actually,” I lied.
“That’s good. The deal I have with certain parties in our gov-
ernment is that you and Jamie are not to be touched. But there
TO COLLAR A KILLER
187
was no mention made of what might happen to your father at
his little security post at the Coronado Cays.”
I stared at him. His smile was full of malevolence.
“At his age?” he leered. “A sudden heart attack? A stroke?
These things are hard to predict, yet easily arranged. Just a drop
or two of some tasteless, odorless poison, dropped surrepti-
tiously in his coffee when he’s not looking, and he’s off to his
final reward with no one the wiser, except the grieving son.”
I shook my head. “You’d have to use something that metabo-
lizes quickly so it can’t be traced. Otherwise—”
“Don’t worry, I know of several such substances. So, be a
good son, Jack, and don’t cause trouble for dear old Dad.”
“As you wish, Your Evil Highness.”
Charles arrived with my scotch. “Your drink, sir.”
“Never mind, Charles. Drink it yourself, if you like.”
“Very good, sir.” He receded to the bar and placed my unim-
bibed refreshment on top of the polished oak.
Jamie came back with her purse. “Got it,” she said, smiling
and patting the handbag, which, if I knew anything about my
sweetie, now held not only her keys, her checkbook, and her
credit cards, but an evidence bag, containing a formerly sterile
cotton swab—presently smeared with some of Maxwell’s
saliva, along with epithelial cells from his chapped lips that
she’d just swabbed off the mouthpiece of his pipe.
Good girl.
34
We held off talking until we were well out on the open water,
then Jamie shouted, “What are we going to do, Jack?”
I put my finger to my lips and motioned for her to give me
her purse. She did. I took out her checkbook and pen and wrote
on the back of the checkbook, “The boat is probably bugged.
Did you get his DNA?”
She read the note and nodded.
I shouted, “It looks like there’s nothing we can do. He’s re-
ally got us over a barrel, this Maxwell.”
“I guess you’re right,” she shouted. “Besides, if the govern-
ment is involved, it’s hopeless.”
“At least Kemp is going to jail and not me.”
“But Jack! He’s getting away with murder!”
I put a finger to my lips and said, “I know, honey. Let’s just be
thankful we’re still alive! And there’s my dad to think of.”
“You’re right. There’s nothing we can do.” She yawned.
“You look tired,” I said. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“You want me to take over the wheel?”
“I would, honey, but remember last time?”
She was referring to an incident where she and I went to
Monhegan Island to track down a fugitive waiter. Some things
happened. I took the runabout without her, almost got lost at sea,
and nearly died of hypothermia.
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189
“It’s only two o’clock,” I shouted. “Just point me in the right
direction. You can take a nap.”
“Okay.”
We switched places. She pointed me to a landmark on the
horizon, then to a compass to the right of the wheel. “Just keep
this little dealie here pointed west. And keep the nose of the
boat pointed toward that lighthouse. Can you see it?”
It was a tiny speck on the horizon, but I could see it.
“Good.” She climbed into one of the back seats (there are
three), bunched up a blanket for a pillow, got her long chestnut
hair out of the way, made herself comfy and cozy, closed her
eyes, and in no time she was fast asleep.
Out on the open water, my hands on the wheel, I thought
